


It Was Probably The Pudding

by Serendipity_Cometh



Series: At Least We Didn't Panic [1]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe, Asthma, Body Snatchers, Except for when they are, Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Science Bros, Sickfic, Steve and Tony are not parents, Superfamily, Team Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 77,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipity_Cometh/pseuds/Serendipity_Cometh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Given that over the course of the past eleven months Peter Parker hasn't contracted so much as a head-cold, the teenager thought it safe to assume that the whole 'irradiated spider bite' gig had equipped him with an immune system of steel that rivalled Captain America's. </p>
<p>So when he wakes up one night in the midst of the worst asthma attack he's suffered in almost eight years, neither he nor the rest of the team can think of a logical explanation.<br/>And everything sort of goes downhill from there.</p>
<p>(Set in an Alternative Universe where Peter moved into the Avengers’ Tower following the events of The Amazing Spider-Man.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Room To Breathe

_This story is set in an Alternative Universe where Peter lives with the rest of the Avengers, and has been resident there since the events of TAS, on Fury's orders. The SHIELD director wasn't about to let a 17-year-old superhero fly solo, not when there was a ready-made superhero babysitting service available to keep the teenager out of trouble (and out of Fury's completely-metaphorical hair)._

_Our story begins about eight months down the line, on an average mid-summer night, where the city is quiet (for once) and nothing at all seems amiss..._

* * *

He wasn't sure, at first, what had woken him. The room was still dim, the only source of light coming from the alarm clock on the bedside table, the red digits glaring at him angrily in the darkness. And no wonder; it was still stupid o'clock in the morning, there was absolutely no need for him to be awake, not for another five or six hours at least.

It wasn't until he rolled over and tried to heave a sigh, only to discover that he  _couldn't,_  that the reason for his sudden return to consciousness became apparent.

 _Shit_.

He pushed himself upright on instinct, trying to lever the weight off his chest, only to find that the tightness was not due to something being  _on_  him, but rather something  _within_  him that seemed determined to restrict his lung capacity. He coughed, hoping that it was a physical blockage - mucus, saliva, dust – something that his body could clear by itself. But suddenly he couldn't  _stop_  coughing. And God, it hurt.

The force of it had him doubling over, one arm wrapped around his abdomen, the other yanking back the bedclothes so that he could stagger towards the en-suite bathroom, squinting against the sudden glare of the sensor-triggered spotlights in the ceiling as his fingers gripped the cool porcelain of the sink, shoulders hunched and chest heaving as he tried to suck in enough air to satisfy his starved lungs.

“Master Parker,” JARVIS spoke, the soft English vowels echoing in the spacious tiled bathroom. “You appear to be experiencing respiratory distress. Do you require assistance?”

Peter shook his head frantically, even though the AI wouldn’t be able to see him (the bathrooms in the main suites were perhaps the only place Jarvis _didn’t_ have eyes), hunching over a little more to try and take the weight off his chest, sucking in each breath desperately.

“I’m…I’m fine,” he managed between gulps of air, trying to ignore the alarm bells going off in his head; a shrill, frantic voice that cried ‘ _asthma attack, asthma attack, asthma attack!’_ in a continuous mantra.

It couldn’t be an asthma attack. That was impossible. He’d only needed to use his inhalers a handful of times since he’d hit puberty (he’d kept them around the house, just in case, and Aunt May had insisted on him taking two puffs of his steroid inhaler morning and night whenever he came down with a cold). He’d been the type of kid to catch every flu bug and chest infection and head-cold that passed his way, and he’d certainly been no stranger to viral-induced wheezes (he and the Memorial Hospital emergency department had become well acquainted every winter season), but that had all been _Before_. Before the bite, before his body chemistry had re-written itself and given him a fucking amazing immune system. In the eleven months that had passed since then, he hadn’t suffered so much as a sniffle.

Which was why this couldn’t be an asthma attack. It _couldn’t_.

“My scans indicate that both your heart and respiratory rate have greatly exceeded medically satisfactory parameters,” Jarvis informed him, and Peter had to applaud Tony for incorporating such a broad vocal spectrum into the AI’s design. Jarvis sounded downright _worried_.

“Don’t…don’t sweat it, J,” Peter croaked, squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden wave of dizziness ( _‘oxygen deficiency,’_ that frantic voice in his head insisted). “M’okay. Honest.”

“I’m afraid my programming dictates that I contact another member of the team regarding your current physical well-being,” Jarvis spoke, sounding completely unapologetic.

Peter’s head shot up at that, eyes wide. “No! M’fine. Jus’…just gimme a sec, okay?”

“Please try to remain calm,” the AI continued, clearly having chosen to override Peter’s request (seriously, the computer was such a tattle-tale). “Help will be with you shortly.”

The teenager swore under his breath, pushing himself away from the sink and stumbling back into the main bedroom, making a beeline for his dresser. If he was about to get bombarded by half of the team, he wasn’t going to sit there in nothing but his boxers. Not that he was self-conscious or anything. Another bonus of the whole spider-bite gig was that he had a fucking amazing metabolism that seemed to burn through all the crap that he ate and turn it into lean muscle. But it just seemed like common courtesy to make an effort to clothe himself. It might also win him some brownie points in convincing the others that he was fine, because bare-chested he could see the extent of the recession in his chest and abdomen where the muscles strained to aid his diaphram and yeah, no, that wasn't normal.

However, even the act of pulling a t-shirt over his head and threading his arms through the sleeves left him breathless, panting; staggering back to sit on the edge of the mattress with his elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low and shoulders heaving as he tried to ease the tightness in his chest.

Jesus Christ. For what clearly _wasn’t_ an asthma attack, it sure as hell felt like one.  
  


OoOoO

  
“Cute. Real cute. You gonna give it back now?”

Steve passed the screwdriver to his other hand so that it was further out of reach. “I will,” he promised, hooking his foot around the lower bar of Tony’s rolling stool to pull him away from the workbench. “Tomorrow. Come on, Tony, it’s nearly 2am. Time to call it a day.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but obligingly tossed his pen back onto the workbench. “You’re lucky I like you, Capsicle. It’s not everyone who gets away with nickin’ my stuff without legal ramifications.”

Steve hummed agreeably, lips twitching up in a quiet smile as he tugged Tony away from the workbench and gave him a friendly shove towards the exit. “Bed, Tony.”

“Oh, Captain!” The mechanic spun around to walk backwards, waggling his eyebrows at the soldier and clutching a hand to his chest in faux-surprise. “This is all so sudden. You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”

Steve felt his cheeks heat up, even as he gave Tony another shove. “You’re incorrigible.”

Tony grinned, leaning his hip against the door of the workshop. “Why, thank you. It’s taken a few years, but I really think I’ve perfected my-”

“Pardon the interruption, Sir,” Jarvis spoke, the volume pitched just a little shy of _too loud_ so that the engineer couldn’t possibly ignore him. “But I believe a situation may have arisen that falls under the category of a ‘P.S.M.I’.”

Tony straightened immediately from his casual slouch, glancing over towards one of the many hidden cameras that served as the computer programme’s eyes.  
  
“Are you sure?”

Taking notice of the billionaire’s abrupt change in mood, Steve felt the first twinge of dread uncurl in the pit of his stomach.  
“What’s a P.S.M.I?”

“A Potentially Serious Medical Issue,” the A.I informed him calmly, then hastened to add, “The acronym was not of my choosing.”

“A medical issue?” Steve could feel the dread twisting up into a sharp, cold fear. “What’s wrong, is someone hurt?”

“Master Parker appears to be suffering from acute respiratory distress, the cause of which is unclear.”

“Peter?” Tony was already moving towards the elevator, Steve less than half a step behind him. “Jarvis, get us up there. Double-time.”

The elevator whirred to life and began ascending rapidly. Steve braced a hand against the wall to steady himself until his stomach caught up with the rest of him, his brow creased in worry as he watched the blue numbers move from single to double digits on the small screen above the elevator doors.

“Should I notify Dr Banner, Sir?” Jarvis queried.

Tony was silent for a moment, then shook his head once. “No, not yet. We’ll assess the situation first; it might be something we can fix.”

Steve understood his reasoning. ‘Respiratory distress’ covered a wide spectrum of medical possibilities, but it wasn’t necessarily indicative of an emergency situation. Steve had suffered through enough panic attacks, post-traumatic distress and flashbacks to know that medicine wasn’t always the answer. Given what Peter had gone through this past year – gaining his abilities, losing his uncle, that whole mess with Dr Connors and the legal action taken against Spiderman by OSCORP, Captain Stacy's death, Gwen Stacy’s kidnapping, his aunt’s waning health – he was certainly entitled to a meltdown or two. Or six. The kid was made of strong stuff, that was for sure, but he was still just that: a kid. And although Steve and the rest of the team had tried to give him the support he needed, the reality of the situation was that the Avengers were the frontline defence for planet earth against the rest of the universe (most of which seemed out to get them), and that kind of sacrifice came with a heavy burden of responsibility. Their particular line of work tended to come with consequences, both physical and mental.

“He wasn’t injured, right?” Tony asked, although _who_ he was actually directing the question towards - Steve, Jarvis or himself - was unclear. “In the confrontation yesterday? He would’ve said something. One of us would’ve noticed.”

Steve felt just about as convinced as Tony sounded. Admittedly, Peter had a rather poor history for accurately reporting injuries post-mission. He tended to either grossly understate the severity of his wounds or hide them from the team altogether. And while the teenager might have a super-human healing factor that surpassed even his own, Steve still made a point to enforce medical checks as often as possible. He’d lost enough good men during the war to understand the potentially fatal consequences of unreported injuries.

With that at the forefront of his mind, he slipped quickly through the still-parting doors of the elevator and made his way along the hallway at a sprint, skidding to a halt outside the master bedroom and rapping lightly on the door.

“Peter?” he called. “It’s Steve, champ. Can I come in?”

When no reply was immediately forthcoming, the cold ball of fear within him churned a little more. Acting on gut instinct alone (because something was wrong, something was _very_ wrong, he just knew it), he turned the handle and pushed the door open, taking a step into the room.

Steve’s heart lurched in his chest at the sight that met him. Peter was sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees and shoulders heaving as he sucked in loud, wheezy breaths. Jarvis had turned the spotlights up a little brighter, and in the dim yellow glow of the room, Steve could see the alarming pallor of the teenager’s skin. In the half-second that it took him to absorb the situation, he stood frozen in the doorway, but he quickly shook himself from his stupor. Crossing the room in several long, rapid strides, he perched on the edge of the bed beside the younger man, one hand settling on his back as the other arm wrapped around the kid's chest to try and lever him upright a little.

“Peter?”

“M’okay,” the teenager wheezed, letting Steve prop him up against his shoulder.

“Jarvis,” Tony spoke from the doorway, in a tone that said _‘I’m panicking but I’m pretending not to’_. “Call Bruce. Now.”

Shaking his head, Peter made an effort to protest, although the words were lost in a series of barking coughs that sounded painful enough to make Steve wince. They seemed to drain the kid of whatever energy he had left, because once the coughing had stopped he slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, breathing raggedly and with an audible high-pitched wheeze on both inhale and exhale that sounded all too familiar to Steve’s ears.

“Peter,” he hedged, concern lacing his tone as he ducked his head a little, trying to catch the teenager’s eye. “Peter, do you have asthma?”

The younger man shook his head again. “Not…not since…” He wriggled the fingers of one hand in a poor imitation of a spider crawling. “ _Before_.”

“Is that what this is?” Tony asked, hovering half a pace away from them, his anxiety made apparent by the tense set of his shoulders, the way his gaze flickered rapidly back and forth between Peter and Steve. “An asthma attack?”

“Sure looks that way,” the soldier replied, even as Peter shook his head again.

“S’not asthma,” he insisted, his voice strained as he forced the words out between wheezing breaths. “I don’t…don’t get sick anymore.”

Steve knew that this, at least, was true. He’d made a point to learn as much about the team as he could (within reason – he hadn’t pried into Clint and Natasha’s past, he knew there were things that both agents would rather keep to themselves), and their SHIELD medical files had been one of the things that he had been made privy to. Again, it hadn’t been anything overly detailed, only a brief summary of the information Fury had thought it necessary for him to know; allergies, existing medical problems that might impede their ability to function in certain situations, immunity status, etc.

What he had learnt was that Clint had a serious shellfish allergy (although the archer had informed him of the fact in person shortly afterwards), Natasha only had one functioning kidney, Bruce’s blood was toxic, Tony had once almost been poisoned by the very thing that was keeping him alive, and lastly that Peter Parker was resistant to almost every toxin, neuro-stimulant and infectious agent that SHIELD had on file.

But given that the kid fought extra-terrestrials for a living, there was a distinct possibility that he might have been exposed to something that SHIELD _didn’t_ have on file.

“Don’t suppose you’ve still got your inhalers kicking about somewhere?” Tony asked, his attention focused on the teen as passed his cell phone from one hand to the other (a nervous habit that Steve had witnessed whenever the mechanic found himself in a situation wasn’t immediately fixable).

Peter shook his head a little, blue-tinged lips parted as he continued to suck in loud, wheezy breaths. For the first time since they had met almost eight months ago, Steve recognised a quiet fear beginning to dawn in the younger man’s eyes, and he slid his hand up to rest on Peter’s neck, squeezing reassuringly. He could remember all too well how it felt to have your airways slowly tightening within you; how a slow, cold dread would wash over you, a morbid certainty that this attack would be your last, that you wouldn’t make it to the doctor’s in time. Steve knew that medical treatment had improved significantly since then; attacks didn’t last for hours or days like they once had, and science had worked out methods of identifying potential triggers. Kids didn’t need to live in fear of suddenly suffering an attack and being helpless to stop it. But he doubted that made it any less terrifying.

“Peter.”

The soldier blinked, turning his head, and suddenly Bruce was there, crouching at the bedside. The scientist had clearly risen from his own bed only minutes beforehand; he was still dressed in pyjamas, bare-footed and rumpled-looking with his hair sticking up at odd angles and his glasses slightly askew. His expression, however, held no trace of fatigue as he studied Peter closely, one hand resting on the teenager’s chest and the other lightly gripping his wrist, the index and middle fingers feeling for a pulse.

“What happened?” the older man asked, his voice low and calm as he shot Steve a sideways glance.

“Jarvis called a P.S.M.I. alert,” Tony replied, hovering at Bruce’s shoulder. “This is how we found him. Kid says he used to have asthma, before the whole spidey-bite shindig.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered up to Peter’s face again, a crease forming between his brows. “You have asthma?”

Peter shook his head again, sucking in several ragged breaths before trying to answer. “S’not…I don’t…it can’t-”

“Don’t try to talk,” Bruce advised gently. “Just concentrate on breathing for me, alright? We’ll have you fixed up in no time.” He dropped his hand from the teenager’s chest and stood quickly, growing serious again as he glanced from Steve to Tony. “We need to get him to the infirmary. You got him, Steve?”

Nodding, Steve stood, leaning down to loop one arm around the teenager’s back and another beneath his knees, lifting him with ease. Even without super-human strength, he likely wouldn’t have struggled, given that the kid probably weighed less than Natasha.

Peter opened his mouth as though to protest this new development, but seemed to think better of it when he couldn’t find the breath to voice his thoughts. Steve adjusted his hold on him to make him more comfortable and tried to send the kid a reassuring smile, but even to him it felt forced. The rapid pounding of his heart and the surge of adrenaline in his veins had him on edge, fearful in a way that he hadn’t been in a very long time. He could keep a cool head out on the field, calming injured soldiers while they waited for medical assistance; but here, behind the walls of their own home, where the injured party was just a kid and there was nothing that Steve could physically _do_ to help, he felt out of his depth.

And still that cold ball of dread remained, buried deep within him, churning in an almost nausea-inducing manner. Telling him that something was wrong, something was very, very wrong; something they had yet to pick up on.

Truth be told, it had him _terrified._

  
 _.TBC._

* * *


	2. A Mere Tickle In The Throat, Good Sir

Clint’s eyes snapped open a fraction of a second after his cell phone buzzed against the wooden surface of the bedside table. Halting his hand’s automatic twitch towards the compact bow tucked away in its hidden nook beneath the frame of the bed, he leaned over to grab the phone, propping himself up on his elbow as he blinked the heaviness of sleep from his eyelids.

“Everything okay?” a voice murmured behind him, soft but clear as though the speaker hadn’t just been roused from a deep sleep (a talent that Clint had always envied, and likely always would). A warm arm slipped around his waist beneath the blankets.

The younger man grunted in affirmation, thumbing in the access code. “Got a text. S’probably just Tony tellin’ me he’s designed a new arrow-head that he wants me to look at. Guy seriously has no concept of time when he’s down in that workshop.”

Phil sniffed a grin, soft lips pressing a kiss to the archer’s shoulder as Clint skimmed through the text.

_Medical emergency. Need you to_  
 _prep the Quinjet. Spidey’s down_.  
                             _\- TS_

The tendrils of sleep that had been clinging to him vanished instantaneously, a cold, hard ball of dread settling in his stomach as he re-read the message twice, pushing himself upright and swinging his legs out of bed.

“Clint?” Phil prompted, a note of urgency underlying his otherwise professional tone, and light filled the room as the agent flicked on the bedside lamp. “What’s the situation?”

“Medical emergency.” Grabbing the nearest pair of combat pants he came across, he began pulling them on with the quick efficiency of someone who was used to frequent nights of interrupted sleep. “It’s Peter.”

Phil was already mobilising, snagging his own cell phone from the other bedside table and moving towards the dresser to pull out a clean shirt and pants. Clint hopped awkwardly on one foot as he pulled on his left boot, then cursed aloud when he couldn’t find the other one (admittedly, they had started undressing in the study last night, so it was bound to have been tossed somewhere unusual).

“Jarvis,” he called, limping out into the hallway. “Lights to max, I need to find my damn shoe.”

“Would you like me to assist you, Agent Barton?” the AI offered as he half-blinded Clint with the sudden, fierce glow of the overhead lights.

“Nah, I’m good.” He snagged the boot from where it lay in the doorway to their shared living room (not that either of them actually lived in it much, given that the team living room two floors up tended to be a hell of a lot more interesting). “Do you know what’s wrong with Peter? All Stark said was ‘medical emergency’. Is he injured?”

“Master Parker is experiencing acute respiratory distress,” the computer informed him as the archer hurriedly stomped his foot into the boot and gave a rushed, half-assed attempt at tying the laces. “Dr Banner has not yet determined the cause of his condition, but I believe he and Mr Stark are attempting to manage the symptoms. Regrettably, they appear to be having difficulty in doing so.”

Cursing under his breath, Clint jogged back into the bedroom to retrieve his bow and cell phone. He found Phil already dressed (no surprise there, the man could be the star of a damn quick-change sketch if he really wanted to), looking composed and unhurried as he slid his holstered weapon beneath the folds of his tailored suit jacket, in the midst of talking to somebody at headquarters via his SHIELD regulation earpiece.  

“I’ll contact you with our ETA as soon as we’re airborne,” he spoke, briskly and calmly. “Have medical standing by on the landing pad as soon as we touch down….Negative, I haven’t had a chance to assess the situation yet. Stand by for further instructions.”

He tapped the earpiece twice with the tips of his middle and index finger, cutting the call, before turning back to face Clint.

“Steve briefed me,” he flashed the screen of his cell phone towards the archer, indicating the text message that he had apparently just received, “sounds like Parker’s in a bad way. The helicarrier’s only forty miles from our position and currently en-route to meet us midway; with the Quinjet, we should be there in under ten minutes.”

Clint nodded once, pushing back that gut-twisting feeling within him, slinging the bow case over his shoulder and walking less than half a step behind Phil as his partner strode from the bedroom and along the corridor.  
  
“She’ll be ready to fly in five.”

“Take the elevator,” Phil ordered, as they moved in unison towards the lateral hallway. “The infirmary’s only six floors down, I’ll take the stairs. Let me know when the jet’s ready and we’ll bring him up to you.”

“Yes, sir.”  
  
Clint ran.

OoOoO  
  


Peter blinked at his surroundings groggily, finding it hard to concentrate on anything beyond the burning tightness in his chest. It took his sluggish brain a few seconds to catch up with the rest of him, but when it did he had to resist the urge to groan (mostly because doing so would have stolen what little breath he could suck into in his lungs and he was dizzy enough already, thank you very much).  

He was in the infirmary. Again.

It was hardly the first time he’d found himself in this position since joining the Avengers team, but he still disliked the experience. His numerous hospitalisations as a kid had left him wary of clinical areas, and that feeling of unease had only worsened since he’d acquired his super-human abilities. All it would take was one simple blood test and the whole world would know Spider-Man’s true identity (something he’d been fucking careful not to let slip – although it had taken a lot of persuasion on the team’s part to convince Director Fury to go along with it). It wasn’t that he was ashamed of who he was, or even that he was scared about being in the public eye – hell no, who wouldn’t want to be a popular superhero with thousands of adoring fans? – but he simply couldn’t risk it. He had to protect the people he cared about. The Avengers made a lot of very powerful enemies; enemies who consistently went for their weak spots (Gwen’s kidnapping had served as solid and terrifying proof of that). He wouldn’t put her in danger, not again. And Aunt May was still recovering in hospital from her recent heart operation; she needed rest, not to be hounded by reporters asking questions about ‘the real Spider-Man’. He couldn’t protect them as Spider-Man, superhero extraordinaire. But he _could_ protect them as boring old Peter Parker, high school graduate and summer intern at Stark Industries, tech. department 4.

But it didn’t matter that Peter and Spidey had to exist as two separate people leading two separate lives. They could still both hate hospitals.

A large chunk of his unease also stemmed from the fact that he was partially resistant to most opioids, stimulants and anaesthetics (Lord help him if he ever needed surgery), and he didn’t fancy the idea of someone attempting to stitch him up in the emergency room with a local anaesthetic that would likely wear off after ten minutes. He hated SHIELD medical just as much (again, simply because it _felt_ like a hospital), but at least the doctors there knew what they were dealing with. It wasn’t as though they’d never come across a super-human before.

If he’d had any say in the matter, Peter wouldn’t have come here at all. But to tell the honest truth, he couldn’t actually remember arriving in the infirmary to begin with. He’d been feeling dizzy back in his bedroom when Steve had lifted him, he could recall that much – dizzy to the extent that he’d needed to close his eyes for a moment – and after that his mind drew a blank.

God, he hadn’t fainted, had he? The whole situation was embarrassing enough already, he didn’t need the added humiliation of passing out in Captain America’s arms.

His chest still felt tight, the invisible metal bar clinched firmly around his lungs, but things had improved marginally. Enough, at least, that the black dots had stopped hovering in his peripheral vision. He took that as a positive sign.

There was a weird, static-like noise hissing in the background, and he turned his head a little to try and see where it was coming from. Something tugged at the movement, an uncomfortable sort of pressure against his face, and he lifted a fumbling, uncoordinated hand to bat it away.

“Peter?” a voice spoke from somewhere to his left, and there was a rustle of movement before a large, warm hand closed around his own, guiding it back down again. “Hey there, sport. You back with us?”

Blinking to clear the remaining fuzziness from his vision, Peter turned towards the voice, taking in Steve’s anxious expression; the worry was clear in the deep lines that marked the captain’s brow and pinched the corners of his eyes.

“M’okay,” he tried to reassure, but the word was barely audible, muffled by the mask, a forced croak between wheezing breaths.

Bruce appeared from somewhere to his right, a slight crease between his eyebrows as he slid the cool head of a stethoscope beneath Peter’s t-shirt, resting it against his chest.  
  
“Wish I could agree with your medical diagnosis,” he murmured, and sounded genuinely apologetic of the fact, “but unfortunately your body’s telling me a different story. I’ve got you on eight litres of oxygen and a double albuterol neb, but your sats are still sitting in the low 90’s.”

Well, at least that explained the mask, and why his chest didn’t feel as tight as it had been beforehand. The sharp, constant _hiss_ of the vapour was annoying as hell, but given that he was finally able to _breathe_ again (well…sort of), he wasn’t about to complain. He remembered being given albuterol nebulisers in the emergency department as a kid (more frequently over the winter months), but he hadn’t truly appreciated back then how fucking _loud_ they were. Or maybe that was just his super-human hearing stabbing him in the back.

“Could we have that in English?” Tony questioned, appearing at the foot of the bed with Starkphone in hand, thumbs tapping against the touchscreen rapidly, although he lifted his eyes from the device to glance from Peter to Bruce. “Don’t know about anyone else, but that was all French to me.”

“He’s on a pretty high volume of oxygen,” Bruce translated, gaze flickering up to the overhead monitors to take in Peter’s vitals. The teenager resisted the urge to turn around and take a look at them himself, mainly because he lacked the energy to do so entirely. “And the nebuliser acts as a broncho-dilator, so it ought to be reducing the swelling in his airways – if it _is_ swelling; we still don’t know that for certain. But his oxygen saturation levels are borderline. He’s not responding to the standard emergency treatment as well as I’d hoped.”

Peter closed his eyes, trying to block out the medical jargon. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Bruce telling him, but the situation had him on edge enough as it was. He’d much rather try to pretend that the whole thing wasn’t happening.

“We need to prep the Quinjet,” he heard Bruce murmur to Tony, barely audible above both the hiss of the nebuliser and Peter’s wheezing. “I’m not a respiratory doctor, Tony – hell, I’m not technically a _medical_ doctor of any sort – and there’s only so much I can do for him here. He needs a more invasive level of treatment – IV access at the very least, and intravenous albuterol, which we don’t have. With the way he is right now? Things could turn very sour, very quickly. We need to get him to SHIELD medical.”

“I’d figured as much,” Tony replied, his voice low and serious, and Peter opened his eyes again to glance their way. They were huddled close together a on the far side of the room, heads bent, either assuming that the nebuliser would drown out their conversation or forgetting that Peter had super-human hearing - or perhaps both. “Phil’s already on his way down, and Clint’s warming up the engines as we speak. He says we’ll be good to go in five minutes.”

“No.”

It was an effort to get the word out, because his chest had begun to tighten anew, but it was the clearest thing he’d said since this whole palaver had started. Three heads whipped around to look at him and Bruce moved back across the room towards him, the crease in his brow deepening in confusion.

“Peter?”

“Not…not SHIELD medical,” he elaborated, voice strained but firm. “I don’t…I’m _fine_.”

“Like hell you are,” Tony scoffed, leaning against a nearby cabinet and watching Peter with his arms crossed over his chest. “If Jarvis hadn’t tattled on you, there’s a pretty good chance you’d be-”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted, low and firm, in contrast to the warm, gentle hand that settled on the teenager’s shoulder a moment later. “Peter,” he continued, his voice softening, and the teenager glanced his way instinctively (because there was still a teeny-tiny part of his brain that saw Steve and went ‘ _holy fuck, Captain America is in the same room as me’_ , despite the fact they’d lived together for over half a year now).

“Peter, you’re sick,” the older man reasoned quietly, his large hand giving the teen’s shoulder a companionable squeeze. “And I know there are plenty of places you’d rather be, but right now you need medical attention, and the doctors at SHIELD are your best bet. Alright?”

Peter wanted to protest that he _wasn’t_ sick, that this _wasn’t_ an asthma attack – he wanted to close his eyes and shake himself awake from whatever fucked up nightmare he’d fallen into – but he knew it was a pointless exercise in denial. Whatever he was currently experiencing was the most asthma-like ‘not-an-asthma-attack’ he’d ever suffered, and there had been plenty of panic attacks that had come close to simulating the feeling. But there was nothing that had triggered this, no sudden revolution or emotional breakdown that could lead to hyperventilation, and even if there had been, it wouldn’t have plummeted his oxygen saturations into the low 90’s. If anything, it would’ve pumped him full of more oxygen than he needed. Clearly the problem was a physical one (fucking lungs, he’d never signed up for this), and it wasn’t going to fix itself, no matter how much he wanted it to.

His head was starting to spin again, so he let it fall back against the pillows behind him. What he really wanted to do was lay down and sleep, but someone had levered the head of the bed upright and piled pillows behind his back to keep him at an almost 90-degree angle, and although a distant part of his mind reminded him that it was for his own benefit - that the added elevation would take the strain of his diaphragm and aid his breathing – he still didn’t like it.

“Peter?”

Oh, right. They were still waiting for an answer.

Peeling his eyelids open again, he met Steve’s worried gaze. “S’okay. I’ll go.”

Steve graced him with a quiet, approving look. “Good man.”

“Not that you really had any choice in the matter,” Tony remarked, as loud and blasé as ever. “I have strict house rules, Parker, and going into respiratory arrest on my property is in direct violation of said house rules. I’d really hate to have to fire you. Way too much paperwork.”

“Tony,” Steve said again, disapprovingly (or fondly despairing, Peter wasn’t quite sure which – and seriously, when were they going to cut the crap and ask each other out, it was getting ridiculous; Peter had hoped to have left all this painful unresolved romantic tension behind when he graduated from high school, but apparently not).

In truth Peter had never appreciated the billionaire’s casual air more than he did right now. He was glad that the team cared about him enough to be concerned, really he was, but the worried voices and pinched looks had only been worsening his own anxiety. Tony seemed to have figured that out, too, because the casual air hadn’t diminished in the slightest at Steve’s chiding tone. He had starting scrolling one-handed through something on his phone, perching on the end of the teenager’s bed. But he had also settled his free hand on Peter’s right ankle, a reassuring warmth and pressure, and somehow that said more than a dozen worried frowns could. 

“If you’d needed an excuse get out of work for a couple of days, Mr Parker,” a new voice spoke from the other side of the room, “I’m sure we could’ve discussed less extreme methods of earning yourself some sick-time.”

Despite the ever-increasing tightness in his chest, Peter’s lips kicked up in a grin at that, head turning a little (as much as the mask and connecting oxygen tubing would allow) so that he could watch the agent’s approach.

“Sorry, sir,” he wheezed, and even managed a sloppy salute, although god _damn_ , it used up a hell of a lot of energy. “I’ll keep…that in mind.”

“See that you do.”

Phil came to stand at the bedside, returning the smile with his eyes more than anything, although his gaze scrutinised Peter in a way that made the teen feel like he’d suddenly become a new mission.

“Clint’ll have the Quinjet online any minute now,” he spoke, and Peter appreciated the fact that the agent was addressing him directly rather than speaking the rest of the team – Fury had this infuriating habit of talking _about_ him rather than _to_ him when there were other people in the room who the Director perceived to be ‘in charge’ of the younger superhero.  “Is everyone good to go?”

“Is there a medical team on stand-by?” Bruce asked.

The agent inclined his head, gaze shifting from the teen to look at the doctor. “I’ve passed on the details that you gave me, but I’m sure they’ll appreciate a more thorough update.”

Bruce nodded, pushing his glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose. “I’ll brief them over the phone once we’re airborne .” He glanced at Peter briefly, then directed his gaze back towards the older man. “Will they need to initiate quarantine procedures?”

Peter choked on his next wheeze, which triggered a short but brutally painful coughing fit. Once he’d managed to catch his breath, he turned incredulous eyes towards the pair of them.

“Quarantine?” he rasped out, lifting the mask away from his face a little and gratefully accepting the sip of water that Steve offered him.

Phil’s expression was as calm as ever, but there was a warmth of understanding in his gaze. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he answered. “Just standard procedure. Until we find out what’s behind your current condition, we can’t rule out the possibility that it’s a viral or bacterial infection that you’ve picked up from one of our extra-terrestrial visitors.”

“Now, I’m not saying that’s at all likely,” he added, before Peter could wheeze out a protest, raising his hands in a placating manner. “It’s only happened a handful of times in the history of my career. But SHIELD can’t take any chances, not with something like this. Any potential contact has to be screened to eliminate the danger of cross-infection on a global scale.”

“Wait,” Tony’s eyes had finally come up from the screen of his phone, his brow scrunched up in suspicious frown, “does that mean we’re all gonna have to be quarantined?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Bullshit.” The billionaire crossed his arms over his chest, clearly psyching himself up for an argument. “I feel fine.”

“Or potentially, the incubation period for the bacterium could still be in progress,” Coulson reasoned, his voice taking on a ‘ _don’t fuck with me, Stark_ ’ tone that Peter had heard all too often over the past eight months.

“It’s just a precaution,” Bruce tacked on, and gave a pouting Tony a consoling pat on the back. “We need to let the others know. Why don’t you go wake Natasha?”

“Why don’t _you_ go and wake Natasha?” Tony grouched back.

Phil held up a hand to stem any further argument. “ _I’ll_ go and wake Natasha. Is Thor still out? Or is it a Sleep Night?"

"He slept on Monday," Bruce pointed out, eyes still trained on the overhead monitors as he adjusted the oxygen flow a little. "So he'll probably be good for another five days or so. I think he mentioned something about Yellowstone Park."

"He's not gone to challege the volcano again, has he?" Phil asked, sounding resigned, and Peter's curiosity piqued. This was apparently a story the Asgardian prince had yet to share with him.

"No, he promised," Bruce assured him, then added (in a poor impression of Thor's formal tone), "Most sincerely."

"Good." Phil began heading towards the door. "We’ll phone Thor from the Quinjet, he’ll need to come in for testing.”

Tony quirked an eyebrow. “Do Asgardian’s even get sick?”

“Hopefully not,” Phil called back over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you up top in three minutes.”

“Hell no. If I’m gonna be stuck in a quarantine bubble for God knows how long, I’m gonna need tech,” Tony announced, sliding off the end of Peter’s bed and moving quickly towards the door. “Be right back.”

A few seconds later, his head and shoulders popped back in through the open doorway. “You,” he pointed a finger at Peter, arching an eyebrow expectantly, “keep breathing. I meant what I said about the paperwork – seriously, there’s screeds of it. No breaking the rules just because my back’s turned, Jarvis has eyes everywhere and-”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted, a smile in his voice. “Go get your tech.”

The engineer obligingly cut his rambling mid-flow, but pointed his middle and index fingers towards his eyes and then towards Peter in an ‘ _I’m watching you’_ manner that brought a tiny smile, unbidden, to the teenager’s face. Clearly calling that a success, the older man grinned and ducked out, leaving nothing but the sound of the hissing nebuliser in his wake.

The smile slipped again a moment later, and Peter began to fiddle with the oxygen tubing, a nervous sort of habit that he’d never quite been able to shake (if it wasn’t headphones or some other type of wire, it was usually the sleeves of his hoodie). It helped to work off the nervous energy that bubbled just beneath the surface. In truth, he was still reeling from how quickly things had taken a downward spiral. In the space of a few short minutes, the situation had gone from him having a little bit of a wheezing problem to suddenly being a quarantined patient. And what was worse, he’d only gone and dragged the whole team down with him simply by existing in the same environment as them.

“We might be out of there by tomorrow, right?” he queried after a moment, trying to aim for a more optimistic approach. “If this goes away on its own?”

Bruce shared a brief glance with Steve, before redirecting his gaze back down at Peter, a look of sympathy in his eyes. “Even if the symptoms go away, the doctors will still need to run a few tests to find out what went wrong.”

Peter didn’t much like the prospect of half a dozen SHIELD doctors running ‘tests’ on him. He took a couple of deep, wheezing breaths, brow creasing as he replied; “But if I feel fine and…and the tests come back clear, then I can leave, right?”

“They’ll probably want to keep you in for observation,” Bruce reasoned gently. “In case it happens again.”

“But-”

“I think it’s safe to assume that you’re going to be in medical for a couple of days, son,” Steve spoke, and there was a more formal note to his words, a confident tone of command that meant he was speaking as Captain America now, team leader. He gave Peter’s shoulder a consoling pat. “At least until the doctors have figured out what’s causing this and how to stop it from happening again.”

Peter felt a wave of weary resignation wash over him, even as he nodded his head in defeat. A couple of _days._ Fuck. He was going to lose his mind. He wouldn’t be able to relax, not in the helicarrier’s medbay where everything was pristine and high-tech and looked very, _very_ clinical. And he wasn’t a wuss or anything, not by a long shot (he’d sprayed webbing over gunshot wounds and soldiered on before, he wasn’t the least bit squeamish), but if anyone came at him with a hypodermic needle without telling him about it first, he couldn’t be held responsible for his own actions. Fists might fly.

The feeling of unease must have shown on his face, because a moment later Steve’s expression softened in understanding and sympathy, and the hand on his shoulder slid around to gently squeeze the nape of Peter’s neck in a way that was familiar and reassuring and so very, very _Steve_.

“We’re not going to leave you there on your own,” he promised, his voice a low and sincere murmur. “Even if they clear the rest of us from quarantine, I won’t be going anywhere until you’ve been discharged.”

Peter would have offered some form of protest; would have insisted that he’d be fine on his own, that he wasn’t a kid who needed babysitting, that it wasn’t fair on Steve to be stuck in medical just because Peter’s lungs had decided to fuck themselves up. But in truth, he was so relieved at the promise (because seriously, an untold number of days alone in medical would send him absolutely batshit, he wasn’t even joking) that all he could manage was a tired, grateful smile in the older man’s direction.

“Want me to grab some things from your room?” Steve offered, shifting half a pace to the side so that Bruce could disconnect the oxygen tubing from the wall-mounted port and plug it into a portable canister instead. “Don’t know about you, but having my own clothes and belongings makes me feel a helluva lot more normal when I’m stuck in a sickbed.”

Peter did a rapid mental sweep of his room, trying to remember if there was anything that he wouldn’t want America’s greatest icon and his own personal role model to see, but nothing immediately sprung to mind.  
“If it’s not…too much trouble?”

Steve gave the nape of his neck a parting squeeze, his smile warm. “Not at all. I’ll be right back.”

Bruce stepped up to the bedside once the younger man had vacated the spot, the strap of the portable canister slung over one shoulder as he studied the overhead monitors. Seemingly more satisfied with what he saw there, his gaze dropped to Peter again, his smile less forced now.

“Feeling any better?”

“A little,” Peter replied, and this time he was telling the truth. The nebuliser had definitely eased the tightness in his chest, and he could breathe a bit deeper now, although it was still an effort to suck in each lungful of air and he could feel a crackle deep within his chest at the end of every inhale that spoke of trapped mucus. “S’just annoying.”

“Annoying?” the other man echoed, arching a curious eyebrow.

“This,” Peter elaborated, gesturing to himself vaguely; and yeah, okay, maybe that wasn’t actually as self-explanatory as he’d intended it to be. Not to mention waving his arm about used up way too much energy, Jesus Christ, how did he normally manage all this movement? It was exhausting. “The asthma thing. Thought I was passed that.”

Understanding dawned in Bruce’s eyes and he nodded, eyes flickering up to the monitors again when something beeped. “Because of the bite?”

Peter hummed the affirmative, trying to swallow the tickle that was building up deep in his throat. But it proved too strong for the sensitive muscles of his oesophagus to ignore, and a moment later he was coughing, the muscle spasms hunching him forwards as heat pooled in his face. God, he hated coughing. It made his ears ring (or maybe that was just the monitors above him beginning to alarm) and his eyes water furiously, blurring his vision. An intense, fiery pain burned in the centre of his chest with every cough, and he put a hand to the spot, just above his sternum, pressing against it in the hope that applying pressure would lessen the pain somewhat.

This bout seemed to last longer than the previous ones (or perhaps the burning sensation in his chest just made it feel that way), and by the time he was finally able to draw in a breath without immediately coughing it out again, the silver dots had returned to his vision and his fingers had begun to tingle. He leaned back against the mound of pillows behind him, exhausted, closing his eyes as his head spun and trying to catch his breath. His wheeze had grown louder again, more pronounced, and the invisible belt around his lungs had clinched a notch tighter.

“Is he okay?” Tony asked, apparently having returned while Peter was busy hacking up half a lung (or so the teenager assumed, since he hadn’t heard the engineer come in).

“We need to get moving,” Bruce replied, and the edge of worry to his voice set the uneasy butterflies fluttering in Peter’s stomach again. “Where’s Steve?”

“Right here,” spoke a third voice, and Peter did pry his eyes open then because damn, that had been fast.

The captain must have sprinted up the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. Either that, or he’d abandoned his mission altogether. But no, there was Peter’s old rucksack from beneath the desk in his bedroom, slung over one muscular shoulder.

“You guys go on ahead of me,” Bruce instructed, passing the portable oxygen canister to Tony and jogging over to one of the storage units on the other side of the infirmary. “I need to grab some stuff for the flight, I’ll be right behind you.”

Peter didn’t even attempt to voice a protest this time as Steve lifted him from the bed, one hand still rubbing his sternum where the fierce burn had only just begun to subside. In truth, he was starting to get a little freaked out now. Asthma attacks and cough-induced wheezes were one thing, but chest infections were another. And usually the albuterol treatment would have worked by now (or at least alleviated the symptoms a little). The pain in his chest was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, including that one time ten years ago when he’d caught pneumonia over Christmas and been forced to spend the holidays in the children’s ward at the Memorial Hospital. He _knew_ what chest infections felt like.

And they weren’t supposed to hurt half as much as this.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to everyone who took the time to leave a review, send kudos or bookmark this story - I'm absolutely delighted by the response! I love to hear from you, so please do drop me a note if you have any questions/criticisms/suggestions or just want to chat.
> 
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> 
> As a general note to all my readers - unfortunately I work full-time, so I'll never be able to be the sort of writer who updates her fics every couple of days. However, I have allocated Tuesdays/Wednesdays as my weekly update day, so you can always count on me posting a new chapter (or a new story, whichever my muse grabs onto first) within that 48-hour window. So sit tight, m'dears, and watch the calender! I'll never be gone for more than a week.
> 
> xxx


	3. Patience Is A Virtue, Patients Are A Nightmare

 

“Thirteen hours, Coulson. I’ve been on leave for thirteen damn hours, and you’ve already had to call in a Level 9 alert? At four in the goddamn morning?”

“Standard protocol, sir,” Phil replied blandly, and took a slow sip of his coffee; more to relish the one-eyed glower he was being subjected to via the vid-screen than to savour the taste of the beverage itself.

Fury exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What’s the situation?”

Phil set down his Styrofoam cup and laced his fingers together. “Myself and all seven members of the Avengers team have been put under quarantine until further notice.”

“Shit.” The director swept his gaze heavenwards for a moment with a long-suffering sigh, perhaps hoping for divine intervention, and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _fuck my life’_. He used the pads of his middle and index fingers to massage his temple as he returned his gaze to the vid-screen. “What did Stark do this time?”

“Surprisingly enough, Stark isn’t to blame.”

“Huh. Miracles do happen,” Fury drawled. “So who’s the culprit?”

“It’s Parker, sir. He’s sick.”

That actually earned Phil a twitch of the lesser-spotted Incredulous Eyebrow. “Define ‘sick’, Agent.”

“The doctors haven’t given an official diagnosis yet,” Phil informed him, reaching for his touchpad. “We only got here a couple of hours ago. But the preliminary assessment doesn’t look good.” He scrolled down the list of medical jargon. “Respiratory distress, tachycardia, pyrexia, intercostal and tracheal recession, hypertension…the list goes on. Needless to say, he’s seen better days.”

Fury’s frown had deepened, leaving dark grooves in his brow. “Any indication of what the contaminant might be?”

“Nothing so far.” Setting the pad aside, Phil laced his fingers together again. “They’re doing a full battery of tests on all of us, but Peter’s the only one who’s displayed any physical symptoms so far. Hopefully something will come up in the blood-work. We can’t even tell for certain that there _is_ a contaminant; at this point in time, all quarantine procedures are merely precautionary.”

The SHIELD director gave a hum of acknowledgement, glaring at something off-screen when it began to beep. He leaned out of frame for a moment, thumped it, and the noise was silenced.

“How are you handling the isolation process?” the man queried briskly, regaining his seat and shaking out his fist.

“We’ve sectioned off the medical wing on the Helicarrier,” Phil replied, tapping the touchpad controls on the desk to transmit the 3D specs to Fury’s screen. “Internal ventilation, Level 3 quarantine measures for all staff with potential contact risk. Barrier protocols in place for all non-essential personnel.”

“Let’s just hope nobody gets themselves shot anytime soon,” Fury remarked cynically. “Given that it looks like the medbay’s gonna be out of commission for a while.”

Phil took another sip of his coffee. “We’ve alerted the medical team at HQ. They’re on standby to receive all emergency cases over the next forty-eight hours minimum. ”

Fury nodded, his frown lessening by a fraction. “Sounds to me like you’ve got everything in hand, Agent Coulson. Does the situation actually require my physical presence onsite, or can I trust you to keep the ship in one damn piece until the morning?”

“It _is_ the morning, Director.”

“Smartass,” Fury grouched, but it lacked his usual bite. Dragging a hand down his face wearily, he eyed the younger man between the gaps in his fingers. “You’ll keep me updated on any drastic deterioration in Parker’s condition?”

Phil dipped his head in a brisk nod. “You can count on it.”

“Good. If I don’t hear from you beforehand, I’ll call you again in five hours – once I’ve gotten some goddamn sleep.” His expression turned contemplative. “Has anyone contacted Agent Hill yet?”

“I thought I’d leave that particular pleasure to you, Director.”

Fury’s glare turned glacial. “Much obliged.”

“Sleep well.” With another pleasant smile, Phil disconnected the call. He sat back in the chair and retrieved his coffee, taking his time to drain the cup before tossing it neatly across the room and into the trashcan near the wall.

Without looking up, he snapped his fingers and pointed to the spot beside his chair. “Down, Barton.”

There was a rustle, a soft _clang_ , and then Clint dropped down quietly from the ceiling, grinning. “I love it when you backtalk the Director. Sexy as fuck.”

“Glad you approve.” Phil reached for his touchpad to bring up the most recent reports from the various faculties aboard the Helicarrier. “What have I told you about crawling around in the vents?”

“Well, technically, I was in the crawlspace _underneath_ the-” At Phil’s slow, sidelong glance, Clint wisely backtracked and summoned a falsely contrite expression. “Sorry, sir.”

“Hm,” Phil tapped the screen, his tone mild, “you are, are you?”

Clint plopped down in front of him unceremoniously, perching on the edge of the desk. “ _Very._ ”

Phil’s lips twitched again, and he glanced up from his reports with an arched eyebrow. The younger agent held his faux-contrite expression for a moment longer, then smirked and leaned in, lightning-fast, to steal a chaste kiss from his partner, hands grasping lightly at Phil’s collar.

The senior agent merely arched the other eyebrow in response, clearing his throat as their lips parted.

“Your present actions appear to be in violation of the statutory rules of professional conduct,” he murmured, their proximity close enough that the words were a puff of warm breath against Clint’s mouth. “Care to explain yourself?”

The archer gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Your tie was crooked, sir.” His fingers slid down from their light hold on the collar of his shirt to straighten the length of black silk with practised ease. “Just making sure your appearance complies with standard dress code regulations.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

“Mm.”

“I wasn’t aware that wardrobe adjustments necessitated mouth-to-mouth contact.”

Clint’s smile was casual, innocent. “I tripped.”

Phil’s eyebrows climbed a little higher, but his lips twitched again even as he pushed the younger man away gently. “I take it your presence here means the doctors are all done with you?” He fixed Clint with a look. “Or was the ventilation shaft part of your Great Escape?”

The archer raised his hands to forestall any further accusations. “Oh, come on, that happened _one time_ ,” he whined. “And it’s not like I got very far.”

“Your leg was in a cast, Clint,” the senior agent reminded him, his tone carrying the barest hint of disapproval (because while the situation in question may have occurred years ago, it wasn’t something Phil was keen to see repeated anytime soon).

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it,” Clint acquiesced, bracing his feet on the arms of his partner’s chair, forearms resting against his thighs and hands hanging down between his knees. “That wasn’t my brightest moment.”

Phil hummed in agreement, settling a hand on the younger agent’s ankle, his thumb circling the protruding malleolus bone as he skimmed through a message from Sitwell on his touchpad. “What did the doctor say? Any problems?”

“Nope, fit as a fiddle.” Clint made a poor show of trying to subtly read the screen upside-down, and Phil slapped his shin with it lightly. The archer leaned back again with a grin, slouching on the desk with his hands braced behind him. “Tasha and Bruce are fine, too. Steve and Tony were being herded off to cubicles when I left, but I don’t imagine the docs are gonna find anything; by the sounds of it, Tony’s lungs are still working just fine.”

Phil paused in his reading at the implication in Clint’s words, arching an eyebrow as he glanced up at his partner. None of them were especially fond of being stuck in medical, but Stark had a history of being particularly difficult. Lord knows how many members of medical staff he’d had to reassign to different SHIELD facilities because they had point-blank refused to work with Iron Man after their first memorable experience.

 “Do I need to come and work damage control?”

Clint waved away the issue with an easy grin. “Nah, Steve can play Supernanny, he’s got you covered.”

“God bless America,” Phil intoned, just to hear Clint’s surprised huff of laughter.

A new alert popped up in the corner of his touchpad and he opened it, heaving a sigh when the first two sentences were all in block-capitals with a painful number of exclamation points. Maria wasn’t subtle when she was pissed off.

“I need to get back to work,” he spoke, resigned, and tapped Clint’s shins again so that the archer let his legs drop and hopped down from the desk. “Do me a favour and send Natasha in, if you see her. She and Agent Hill have a more amiable relationship; I’ll leave the briefing to her.”

“Gotcha.” Clint stooped briefly to brush his lips against Phil’s cheek before sauntering out of the makeshift office with a cheery, “Say hi to Maria for me!”

Phil frowned at the pad in contemplation for a moment, then heaved another weary sigh and scooted his chair forward, tapping the touchscreen on the desk to bring up the central communications file for the quarantine alert protocols. There were already seven new messages waiting for him when he opened the page, and he eyed the flashing icon with distaste, bracing an elbow against the edge of the desk and propping his head up in his hand.

He was going to need more coffee. 

  
OoOoO

 

  
Standard quarantine procedures, as it turned out, weren’t half as exciting as   
Peter had imagined them to be.

Admittedly, he’d envisioned giant inflatable tunnels and people walking around in spacesuits (so sue him, he’d been a huge fan of _E.T._ as a kid), and consequently he’d arrived with seriously high expectations. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed when the SHIELD version of hazmat suits turned out to be pretty subtle (go figure); navy, form-fitting jumpsuits with a transparent head-bubble for the one-way ventilation system that hung from the wearer’s shoulders like a tiny silver backpack.

Everything had been a little vague by that point. The portable monitor that Bruce had hooked him up to for the short flight from the Tower to the Helicarrier had been alarming almost continually - mostly because Peter hadn’t been able to stop coughing – and he’d become light-headed to the point where he wasn’t entirely sure which way was up or down. He remembered being carried out of the Quinjet, converged upon by half a dozen medics and transferred onto something vaguely horizontal (he had briefly celebrated the prospect of managing to sleep for a bit) and then whisked away inside.

However, with the subsequent onslaught of questions and probing instruments and _needles_ (he hadn’t intended to lash out at the doctor, it had been an instinctive act of self-preservation – and in his defence the guy could have given him a little more warning than _“okay, sharp scratch”_ ), the possibility of getting some shut-eye had gone from fleeting to zilch in about thirty seconds.

Seriously, if one more person came at him with a hypodermic, he was going to flip his shit.

He understood that the doctors needed to run tests; there was still the possibility that he was unknowingly hoarding a host of lethal bacterium which could potentially obliterate the entirety of the human population (and he was pretty sure that had been the plot to at least six low-budget sci-fi movies in the past two years alone). But you couldn’t blame a guy for getting frustrated. It had been _hours_ since they’d touched down on the landing pad, and since then he’d been stuck with more needles than he could count, poked and prodded until he was certain there’d be bruises, x-rayed from every angle imaginable on a half-hourly basis (and seriously, if the radiologist asked him to move ‘ _just a little to the left_ ’ one more time, he was going to web him in the face), and had swabs taken from literally every inch of skin.

_Every. Fucking. Inch_.

Now that, right there, _that_ was why he hated hospitals. There was abso-fucking-lutely _nothing_ wrong with his armpit, thank you very much.

At least he could breathe again. And to be fair, the medics had been pretty efficient at putting in the IV line and starting up the albuterol pump. He’d balked initially at the prospect of having a cannula inserted (injections were one thing, but the thought of a plastic tube sitting beneath his skin for a long period of time had made him feel queasy), and the sentiment must have shown on his face because the moment the medic had pulled the sterile tray up to the bedside, Steve had perched on the mattress beside him and settled a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Tony, in contrast, had bopped him over the head with his Starkpad and cleared his throat.

_“Pop quiz, Einstein.”_

Peter had given him an incredulous look, or at least tried to through the hissing oxygen mask that felt like it took up 80% of his face. “ _What, are you serious? Now?”_

_“Yes, now. Keep up with the program, Parker, no slacking just because your lungs are taking the night off.”_ The mechanic had flipped the Starkpad around to show him the screen. _“What’s this?”_

The teenager had squinted at it, the glaring overhead lights already giving him a headache. _“Uh…a Vibranium molecule?”_

_“Uh-huh,”_ a slide of Tony’s thumb and the screen had changed, displaying a basic set of electrical blueprints, _“and this?”_

Peter brow had wrinkled a little in confusion. _“My webshooters. Wait, why do-”_

_“And this?”_

_“Um…”_ Peter had sucked in a couple of wheezing breaths, glancing between the image on the screen and Tony’s face. _“Robin Hood?”_

_“What, really?”_ Stark had flipped the screen back around to look at the cartoon fox, and barked a short laugh. _“Shit, I’d forgotten I’d made that his file logo. Keep it on the hush-hush, kiddo, I don’t fancy waking up with an arrow in my ass.”_

Then he’d cleared his throat again, given Peter’s knee a light pat, and resumed reading whatever the fuck he’d been reading beforehand.

Peter had blinked, baffled by what (even for Tony) had been a seemingly random intervention, but when the doctor had announced a moment later that he was _“all done”_ and Peter had glanced over to see the plastic cannula sitting snugly in the crook of his elbow, it had all made sense. Give the man a medal, because Peter hadn’t even _felt_ it.

Steve and Tony had been ushered out of the room about half an hour after that by a couple of medics (as per quarantine protocol, apparently, the whole team were undergoing a series of basic tests to rule out the possibility of cross-contamination), and Peter had resigned himself to an hour of solitude and boredom. Sleep had been out of the question, what with the quantity of albuterol they were pumping into him (his heart was already beating fast enough that it felt like a constant, thrumming vibration against his ribcage), and aside from that, there was nothing much to do except listen to the doctors’ medical jargon as they discussed tests and sputum samples and fluid balance from the main laboratory on the other side of the wall. And eavesdropping wasn’t serving any real purpose other than to confuse things further, so he’d given up trying a while ago.

Less than ten minutes into his boredom, however, Natasha had shown up. Peter liked Natasha. She was easy enough to get along with, in the sense that she treated him like an adult and spoke her mind in a no-nonsense sort of way that Peter wished he had the confidence to pull off. She always seemed to be at least three steps ahead of everyone else, regardless of the situation, and her poker face was so damn brilliant that there were times when he genuinely couldn’t tell if she was inspecting her painted fingernails for chips or plotting how best to kill someone with them.

Peter both admired and feared her in equal measure. He’d been reliably informed by both Clint and Tony that this was wise approach to befriending the Russian agent.

They’d talked for a while, and Natasha had bullied one of the doctors into bringing Peter some iced water (seriously, she was the _best_ , it was official), but mostly they’d just sat in companionable silence. Or at least they’d tried to. They couldn’t seem to go fifteen minutes without a doctor or a nurse poking their hazmat-helmeted head through the door or coming in to check Peter’s temperature or (for the twentieth fucking time) x-ray his chest. It was seriously starting to grate on his nerves.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Natasha spoke from her lotus position at the end of his bed, startling him from his thoughts, “glaring at the door won’t actually stop people from coming in.”

Peter dragged his gaze away from the exit to glance at her. “Seems to work well enough for you.”

The agent glanced up from her e-book, a dangerous sort of half-smile curling at her lips and glinting in her eyes, and either that meant Peter had said something particularly clever or he was about to die a painful but efficient death (eight months on, and he still couldn’t read her expressions with any sort of accuracy). The second option was unlikely, but never completely out of the question.

However, the redhead simply shifted a little to pull Peter’s feet into her lap, resting her forearms across his ankles as she continued reading from her touchpad. Peter let out short sigh, head falling back against the pillows as he resumed his previous game of ‘ _how many squares can I count in the panels on the ceiling before my vision starts to blur?’_.

“Tasha.”

Peter glanced up to see Clint moving towards them, hands shoved in the pockets of his combat trousers and an easy smile on his face.

“Coulson wants a word, if you’re free. He’s set up shop in one of the docs’ offices.” He jammed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate that the room was located somewhere along the hallway behind him.

Rising gracefully from her lotus position, Natasha leaned across to brush her fingers through Peter’s hair in a way she _knew_ he disliked (because seriously, his hair stuck up in crazy angles at the best of times) and the corner of her mouth curled up a little.

“You mind keeping an eye on Clint until I get back? He’s liable to shoot one of the doctors if he isn’t supervised.”

Peter could relate to that particular urge, but he returned Natasha’s smile all the same. “Sure.”

Clint fixed her with an exaggerated pout as she passed by, and the Russian agent planted an elbow in his ribcage by way of a consolation. The sharp-shooter laughed at that, side-stepping just enough that the blow apparently didn’t hurt as much as Peter assumed it would, and Natasha raised a hand to flip him off as she swept out through the door.

Clint grabbed a rolling stool from the corner of the room and sat down, bracing his feet against the front drawers of the crash cart and pushing off firmly to propel himself over to the bedside (the smooth fucker that he was).

“Hey, kid,” he greeted with a grin. “You’re lookin’ better. Sounding a helluva lot better, too. Seriously, didn’t realise someone so scrawny could wheeze as loud as that.” His searching gaze flickered from the cannula in Peter’s arm to the syringe pump at the bedside. “They got you on the good stuff?”

“Same stuff as before,” Peter replied, still revelling in the ability to actually get whole sentences out in one go rather than gasping the words in between wheezing breaths, “except it’s intravenous, not nebulised. Didn’t work the first time they tried it, apparently my metabolism’s too fast – that’s why the vapour wasn’t working back at the Tower, too. So they’ve got me on a double dose at a faster rate. It’s making my heart beat halfway outta my chest, but at least I can breathe.”

Clint’s eyes moved from the IV pump to take in Peter’s body as a whole. “You feeling okay? Other than the obvious. You seem a little on-edge.”

Peter made an effort to try and relax his posture a little, and uncurled his hand from where it lay fisted in the blanket they’d draped over his lower half.  
“I’m not really a big fan of…you know,” he gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “Hospitals.”

The archer gave a half-hum, half-laugh of agreement, resting his elbow on the edge of the bed and propping his chin up in his hand. “Makes two of us. Don’t worry, we’ll get you outta here as soon as they’ve figured out what’s going on with you.”

Peter sighed heavily, wincing when the end of the sigh turned into several hacking coughs. “Bet you twenty dollars,” he rasped, once he’d recovered his breath, “that it’s just a stupid head-cold or something.”

Clint’s eyes glinted, a slow grin forming. “I’ll take that bet. And I’ll raise the stakes to twenty-five if you win.” When Peter’s answer became lost in another round of deep, chesty coughs, the agent winced and arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re ready to put money where your mouth is so soon?”

“S’matter?” Peter croaked, eyes watering as coughed again. “Too chicken?”

“Fine, on your bank account be it,” Clint relented with an easy smile, raising a hand in surrender. “I’m in.” He snagged the cup of water from the table at Peter’s bedside and offered it to him. “Here, before you hack up your lung or something.”

“Thanks.” The teenager hiked the oxygen mask up over his nose to rest against his forehead, sipping the cool fluid gratefully, his free hand rubbing at his sternum where the fierce, hot ache had built up once again.

“That hurt?” Clint asked, eyeing the younger man’s chest as he kicked the rolling stool away and took a seat in the cushioned bedside chair instead.

Peter forced a wincing sort of smile. “I’ve had worse.”

The archer appeared unconvinced as he plucked the empty glass from Peter’s hand. “Considering the first time we met was right after you’d been shot in the leg, I don’t find that particularly reassuring.”

“Why do _I_ have to be reassuring?” Peter griped, because this was Clint and 90% of their banter involved whining at each other as often as possible. “Isn’t that supposed to be your job? I’m the sick one here.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint’s grin turned sickly-sweet and he braced his other elbow on the mattress, propping his chin up in both hands. “Which means you can’t just web away from me when you run out of verbal ammo, twinkle-toes. You know how long I’ve waited for an opportunity like this? It’s gonna be even better than that one time Tony was bedridden for three days straight and there was a convenient air vent right above his head.”

Peter glanced upwards to double-check that there were no such Clint-sized openings available in the immediate vicinity, and was relieved to see that the overhead grating was sealed and intact. He dropped his gaze to find Clint smirking, and levelled him with a glare that he didn’t really feel.

“Dude, you suck.”

“Yeah?” The archer ruffled his hair with one hand and used the other to tug the oxygen mask back down over Peter’s nose and mouth before the monitors could start alarming again. “Right back atcha, Ladybug.”

Peter pushed the man’s hand away, but a smile was curling at his lips, unbidden. He never could stay miserable around Clint; the archer had a talent for annoying the hell out of him without actually pissing him off, and while it generally exasperated him to no end it could also be fucking hilarious. Clint was good like that. He’d been the one to drag Peter down out of his room and shove a Wii remote in his hand during those first grey, miserable weeks he’d spent in the Tower, still reeling from everything that had happened with Dr Connors and Captain Stacy and from breaking up with Gwen. Clint was always the one to nudge Peter’s foot under the table during briefings, wordlessly urging him to voice whatever idea or concern he’d been holding onto (how Clint always knew that he was biting his tongue, Peter would never figure out, but he was grateful for it). And yeah, occasionally (because sometimes he needed it), Clint was the one to call him an idiot and slap some sense into him if he was contemplating doing something particularly stupid or self-sacrificing. He was like the annoying elder brother that Peter had never asked for to begin with and couldn’t get rid of (and wouldn’t want to, not that he’d ever admit to it in so many words).

“And exactly _how_ was that my fault, Rogers?” a voice from the corridor demanded incredulously, growing louder as the speaker approached the room and snapping Peter from his thoughts. “The guy didn’t even _ask._ ”

“He did, Tony,” came Steve’s reply, resigned, suggesting that it wasn’t the first time he’d argued the point. “Twice.”

“Bullshit.”

A delighted grin curled at Clint’s mouth and he waggled his eyebrows at Peter before leaning back in his seat, feet hooked around the lower bar of Peter’s bed for balance as he tipped himself all the way back onto the rear two legs of his chair, smiling upside-down towards the newcomers as they entered the room.

“Hey, Tony,” he greeted in a teasing, sing-song voice. “How were the tests? Threaten any doctors with lawsuits?”

“Several,” Steve answered for him, his expression a cross between amused and exhausted as he stepped into the room behind the mechanic.

“Thieving, plotting, blood-sucking vampires, the whole lot of ‘em,” Tony grouched, stomping over to Peter’s bed and hopping up to sit on the edge of the mattress, nudging the teenager’s feet aside a little to make room. He gave the monitors a cursory glance, then squeezed Peter’s ankle. “How are you holding up, kid? Anytime you need to stage a prison break, you let me know.”

Peter shot him a hopeful look. “Now would be good.”

“Nobody’s escaping anywhere until we know what we’re dealing with,” Steve intervened, ever the voice of reason, although his tone hadn’t lost its edge of amusement. He moved to stand at the head of the bed opposite Clint, a warm hand settling on Peter’s shoulder. It was a familiar and reassuring pressure that had the teen relaxing a little more against the pillows. “Have the doctors said anything yet?”

Peter gave a one-shouldered shrug, unwilling to dislodge the captain’s hand just yet. “It’s more of a waiting game now until the test results come back. They’ve stopped poking me every five minutes, anyway. They came in a little while ago to take another x-ray. I figured maybe they’re trying to make a collage out of ‘em or something.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, kicking the blanket down a little further to get some breathing space. Tony made a noise of protest at being jostled, but shifted to pull the blanket off him completely and reposition Peter’s feet in his lap.

“Quit fidgeting, McWriggles,” he chided without any real heat behind it. “I’m trying to find a way to modify your webshooters to accommodate larger capsules without changing the discharge density.”

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled, tugging at the neck of his loose t-shirt to try and get some airflow to his sweaty skin. “I’m kinda melting here.”

Steve’s brow creased a little, the hand that wasn’t on Peter’s shoulder moving up to press against the teen’s forehead. “You still running a fever?”

Peter hummed the affirmative, deciding that cooling himself off was too much of an effort (using up energy that he really didn’t have) and resigning himself to the uncomfortable heat instead. “Bruce says that’s the main indication that my body’s still trying to fight something. Now the doctors just need to figure out what that ‘ _something_ ’ is.”

The captain gave him a reassuring smile, dropping his hand from the younger man’s brow. “I’m sure they’ll let us know the test results as soon as they come through. Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

Peter shook his head again, his expression glum. “Can’t. Albuterol’s like adrenaline. I’m too keyed up.” He was exhausted too, mind you, but his heart was still pounding a mile a minute and his brain was buzzing. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. “Just bored.”

Tony nudged his foot. “Should’ve said something earlier, kiddo, I’ve got Netflix on here. Pick a movie.”

“Ooh, gimme.” The teenager made grabby hands towards the Starkpad, his despondent countenance brightening at the prospect of having something ( _anything_ ) to stave off the boredom for a little while and distract him from the slightly nauseating butterflies that fluttered fretfully in his stomach every time his chest began to burn.

“Demanding,” the mechanic grumbled, but brought up the requested site and passed it over to him without further prompting. “Stop waving yours arms around, genius, you’ll pull the line out.”

Peter eyed the cannula distastefully. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Peter,” Steve chided, but there was a smile in his voice.

“Maybe we should stick oven mitts on his hands,” Clint suggested, leaning in closer to peruse the list of movies as Peter scrolled through the _‘Action and Adventure’_ category. “You’re supposed to do that with sick kids, right?”

“Clint?” Peter waited until the archer looked up at him before shaking his head. “Never have children.”

“I second that notion,” Tony piped up, tapping away on his phone now that his Starkpad was no longer available. “You’d turn them all into your own personal ninja-spies, and my life would be a living hell.”

“Mm-hm,” Clint agreed, smiling sweetly in his direction.

Peter gave a sort of half-laugh, half-cough, but quickly became distracted by the image displayed amongst Tony’s ‘ _Favourites_ ’ list. “Hey, wait. They’ve got a cartoon movie about Thor?”

“Oh my _god_ , Pete,” Clint leaned across him to select it, grinning “how have you missed out on ‘ _Thor the Thunder-God_ ’? It’s _hilarious_. It premiered on the Disney Channel last week, Thor made us all watch it.” He prodded Peter’s shoulder. “Where were you?”

“Date night,” Tony supplied, still engrossed in his phone.

“Where _is_ Thor, anyway?” Peter asked, looking up from the Starkpad. “Didn’t Agent Coulson say everyone had to come in to get tested?”

Steve sighed quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. “We still haven’t been able to make contact. Either he’s not able to answer the phone because he’s in trouble, or-”

“Or it’s fallen out of his pocket mid-flight over the South Pacific,” Tony interjected dryly. “ _Again_. Seriously, the super-glue idea isn’t even a joke anymore, Steve.”

“He’ll call in eventually,” the captain reassured. “He isn’t usually back ‘til morning anyway, and I left a message with Jarvis.”

Peter looked between the other team members, a thought occurring to him. “Has anyone tried calling Dr Foster?”

“No…” Tony said slowly, finally looking up from his phone. “But that’s not a bad idea, actually.”

Clint messed up Peter’s hair (well, messed it up _more_ ), smirking. “Good thinking, bug-brain.” He stood, pushing his chair back. “I’ll go make sure Phil hasn’t already phoned her. Might do a coffee run while I’m at it. No, kid, you’re not getting any.” He glanced towards the other two members of the team. “You guys want some?”

Tony’s head had popped up again, eyes wide and hopeful. “There’s coffee?”

“This whole place,” Clint did a spinning motion with his index finger to indicate their surroundings, “is run by scientists. Of course there’s coffee. I take it that’s a ‘yes’ to wanting some?”

“I love you,” came the immediate response.

“Please don’t.” The archer turned to look at Steve. “Cap?”

Steve shook his head, a quiet smile in place. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Don’t give me that look, Parker,” Clint continued, lips twitching in fond amusement in response to Peter’s pout as he started walking backwards towards the exit. “You’re not getting caffeine when your heart rate’s pushing one-eighty and your temperature’s pyroclastic.”

“Wait, it’s what?” Steve shot a startled look towards the monitors.

“Relax, Cap.” Tony finally put his phone away and hopped down off the bed to steal Clint’s vacated seat, leaning over to help Peter select a movie (otherwise known as ‘select the movie _for_ Peter’). “It’s just the meds he’s on. His temp, yeah, that’s not good, but the rest of his vitals are okay.”

Peter gave him a sideways glance. “Since when did you become such a medical expert?”

“I’m not,” Tony replied without missing a beat. “Just been in hospital enough to know a few things. Aha!” He tapped one of the titles, bringing up newly aired pilot episode of the cartoon series.

“ _The Spectacular Spider-Man_?” Peter read, sounding doubtful.

“You’ll love it, Pete,” Tony promised, grinning. “You’re a thirty-five-year-old molecular biologist with an unhealthy fascination in arachnids. You fall into a tank of glowing green stuff and boom, you’re Spider-Man.”

Peter had to laugh at the sheer inaccuracy of it all, although with his croaky throat and burning chest, it was more like a hoarse wheeze.  
“Sounds legit. D’you think people will buy it?”

Tony gave him a wide-eyed look, feigning surprise. “You mean that’s not how it happened?”

Someone cleared their throat over on the other side of the room, and Peter glanced up in time to see the hazmat-suited medic who stood there glance uneasily between Tony and Steve. The warm, casual atmosphere in the room immediately grew sombre, and the butterflies in Peter’s stomach starting going batshit. It was the doctor from earlier – not the pleasant, easy-going guy who’d put the IV line in and asked Peter questions in a casual, friendly manner, but the older dude with the floppy-looking hair who carried an air of anxiety about him like he expected the worst to happen at any moment (and yeah, okay, given that he worked for SHIELD, that was probably understandable).

“Pardon the interruption,” he spoke, although he didn’t seem particularly apologetic. “I need to have a word with Mr Parker. Alone.”

“Are the test results back?” Steve queried, his hand squeezing Peter’s shoulder gently. The teenager realised he’d tensed up again and made an effort to relax his posture.

“That’s confidential information,” the doctor replied briskly. “If you and Mr Stark would like to step outside for a moment?”

“No,” Peter blurted, then flushed when all eyes in the room turned towards him. “I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna keep it to myself anyway. I don’t mind them being here.”

The doctor seemed keen to argue the point, and Peter wondered if maybe he’d been one of the medics Tony had threatened with a lawsuit earlier, but before he could get another word in edgeways, Bruce slipped past him through the doorway with another, younger-looking doctor on his heels. The second medic plucked the folder from the grey-haired doctor’s gloved fingers and shot him a cheery smile.

“We got this, Shepherd. Go get a coffee or something.”

Instead of arguing, the older doctor seemed all too keen to rid himself of the responsibility, turning abruptly and ducking out of the room. That didn’t really do much to help ease Peter’s anxiety.

Bruce moved closer and gave him a tight-lipped smile, although he had this look about his eyes that told Peter the news, whatever it was, wasn’t going to be good.

“Peter, this is Dr Miller,” the scientist introduced, leaning against the board at the foot of Peter’s bed and nodding towards the young medic beside him. Miller shot Peter a smile, tapping two fingers to his hazmat helmet in a sloppy salute, and the teenager felt himself relax marginally. “We’ve been looking over your chest x-rays. There’s something we need you to see, okay?”

Miller tapped a control on a nearby wall-mounted panel and a large monitor directly above the foot of Peter’s bed lowered down from the ceiling slowly, flickering to life with the SHIELD medical logo. The medic swiped his badge against the panel and fiddled with the controls for a couple of minutes, buttons beeping as he pressed them, and suddenly the left-hand side of the screen was displaying a black and white x-ray of Peter’s chest.

“This is the first scan we took,” Miller told him, “about five minutes after you got here. We needed to make sure it wasn’t a pneumothorax and rule out any underlying skeletal damage, so we weren’t looking for anything more specific than that at the time.”

“Everything checked out fine,” Bruce reassured him, then used the capped end of his pen to indicate a white patch about three-quarters of the way down the x-ray. It was less than half an inch in diameter, and Peter would have missed it if the scientist hadn’t pointed it out. “Except for this.”

“Um…what _is_ that?” Peter asked, and was grateful that his voice didn’t crack and betray just how nervous he really was.

“We’re not sure, bud,” Miller said apologetically. “Generally, white patches in the lungs can indicate a number of different things; infection, pockets of fluid, an untreated injury. With your current symptoms, we figured infection was our best guess.”

“But then we compared it to a scan taken just over half an hour ago,” Bruce continued, and Miller pressed a few keys on the panel again to bring up a second x-ray on the right-hand side of the screen.

Peter’s stomach dropped, his eyes drawn immediately to the large white patch that had almost tripled in size, spreading upwards in his lung. He felt Tony go still beside him, a tense sort of silence falling over the room. Steve’s hand slid up from his shoulder to rest on the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the skin there reassuringly, but even that didn’t help to ease the sudden, sharp spike of panic in Peter’s chest.

“Is that...” Peter swallowed and tried again. “Is that thing _growing_?”

Bruce met his gaze, his countenance grim. “We can’t say anything for certain yet,” he replied gently. “But I’m afraid it looks that way.”

Beside him, Tony made a weird sort of noise in the back of his throat, and Peter glanced his way. The mechanic’s expression was unreadable, his jaw set, a pinched sort of look about his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed audibly, eyes still fixed on the screen.

“Well. Fuck,” he surmised.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneaky Phlint, sneakily sneaking into the chapter without my permission. Sneaky bastards.
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks, I'm seriously so flattered that you're all enjoying the story so much. Let me know what you thought of the chapter! See you again same time next week. 
> 
> xxx


	4. Gargle Two Aspirin, You'll Be Better By Morning

 

Peter seemed to be handling the news pretty well, all things considered.  

The teenager still looked pale, and his posture was as tense as it had been at the height of his asthma attack earlier that morning – the muscles of his shoulders were hard beneath Steve’s hand, like a steel spring coiled tight – but he’d kept a tight rein on his emotions, and the only outward sign that he was remotely disturbed by this new development was the way his hands were fisting the bedsheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white. But his eyes were still trained on Dr Miller, his jaw set determinedly as he nodded to indicate his understanding at the appropriate points.

Steve, however, would be lying if he said that the situation wasn’t getting to him. He’d lost dozens of good men under his command during the war; held a number of them as they bled out into the dark, clay-like mud of the battlefield - and how often had it been impossible to tell which was which, when his uniform was caked in copious amounts of both? He’d sat the cot-side of each member of the Howling Commandos more times than he could count (some more frequently than others; Falsworth, despite his level of skill with a gun and ruthlessly clever battle tactics, had always maintained the self-preservation instincts of a lemming) when missions had gone sour, fighting an internal war against his growing guilt over how quickly his own injuries had healed, and facing the sobering truth of just how fragile his friends had seemed by comparison.

The Avengers, too, had suffered their fair share of injuries over the course of the past year, Spider-Man included, but it still never got any easier. It probably had a lot to do with Peter’s age; the teenager was a bright boy, with a sharp mind and an even sharper wit, and it was sometimes easy to forget that he’d only graduated from high school a couple of months ago. He was still just a kid; far too young to be dealing with something like this. Hell, Steve doubted any of them (perhaps with the exception of Coulson) would be able to shrug off the sudden revelation that there was an unknown mass growing inside them. Peter was doing exceptionally well.

There was a pulse of warmth in Steve’s chest at that thought, a sudden swell of pride that eclipsed the ice-cold grip of fear that had been there only moments before. A self-deprecating voice in the back of his mind insisted that he didn’t have any right to feel that kind of pride; that the achievement was Peter’s alone, and Steve wasn’t the boy’s father.

He ignored the voice. He also ignored the urge to pull the kid into an embrace, but only because he doubted it would be appreciated in front of an audience. The soldier may have been a man out of time, but he still remembered what it was like to be a teenager, and he knew _he_ certainly wouldn’t have appreciated the gesture at that age.

“Does anyone have any questions?”

Steve shook himself from his thoughts, refocusing his attention on the group at large. Dr Miller was glancing between them, his body language open and relaxed as he gave them all time to think, although Steve noticed that he was avoiding looking towards the far right-hand side of the room - and a quick glance in that direction left no illusions as to why. At some point Natasha had joined them, slipping in quietly enough that Steve hadn’t noticed (although that was nothing new; the agent’s skills were unparalleled), and she now stood casually leaning against a row of cabinets on the far side of the room, her expression blank. Something glinted, a brief flash of movement that caught Steve’s eye, and as he watched she tossed one of her throw-daggers neatly from one hand to the other, turning it over and over between her fingers as she kept her eyes on the doctor.

That was probably as close to ‘worried’ as Natasha came with any of them.

Steve had a fair few questions that he needed answers to, but he doubted posing them in front of Peter would serve any real purpose other than to add to the younger man’s anxiety. Most of them went along the lines of _‘What in God’s name is it?’_ or _‘How do we get it out without hurting him?’_ , and in all likelihood the doctor wouldn’t have the answers he needed anyway.

“Peter,” Bruce prompted gently, when the silence stretched on for a several beats longer than was comfortable. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but is there anything you’d like to ask us?”

The teenager gave a quick shake of his head, a muscle in his jaw twitching, lips still pressed firmly together. Which was when Steve noticed that Peter wasn’t looking _at_ Dr Miller so much as looking _through_ him, his gaze centred on a fixed point on the wall opposite him. His hands were still gripping the sheets tightly, his body immobile other than the shallow, controlled rise and fall of his chest.

And that was the operative word here, Steve realised. _Controlled._ Peter was keeping everything tightly reined in, but his hold was clearly wavering. Steve had been in that same position often enough (both pre- and post-serum) to know how desperate that hold became when there were other people nearby; when all you wanted to do was break something, maybe yell a little, but the situation demanded that you keep everything bottled up, either for pride’s sake or in the name of professional detachment.

What the kid really needed was space; time to decompress, time to breathe, to vent a little if that’s what he needed to do. What he _didn’t_ need was an audience.

Bruce apparently came to that same conclusion only half a second after Steve did, because his eyes seemed to soften in sympathy. He dropped a hand from the footboard of the bed to lightly touch the teenager’s ankle.

“Peter…”

“Doc,” Natasha interjected quietly, and both Bruce and Miller glanced her way. She flipped the throw-dagger one more time before tucking it neatly into her belt in one smooth motion and heading towards the door. “I’m sure Director Fury would appreciate an update, if you’ve got a minute.”

The hazmat-suited medic was quick on the uptake, quietly standing and moving over to the control panel on the wall to turn off the display screen above the foot of Peter’s bed, terminating the slide-show of scans and x-rays that the doctor had been walking them through.

“Someone will be back in a little while to discuss where we go from here,” Miller told them, directing his words towards Peter, although the teen’s gaze didn’t shift away from the wall. “Just give me a shout when you’re ready, alright? Take your time.”

That last part was directed more towards Steve, who inclined his head in thanks at the unspoken confirmation that nobody would be coming in to disturb them until Peter was ready.

Bruce followed the younger doctor out of the room, but not without a brief, meaningful backwards glance towards Tony. The mechanic took the hint, an uncomfortable sort of look on his face as he brushed his hand over Peter’s shoulder before clearing his throat and rising from his chair, pulling his Starkphone from the back pocket of his jeans, his shoulders tense as he strode away from the bed. Steve watched him go, his brow creasing a little, and wondered whether it was best to follow him out now and keep him from doing something stupid or give him the space he needed to work through his frustrations on his own.

Tony didn’t cope well in situations where he couldn’t physically do anything to help. This likely meant that the mechanic would either attempt to upgrade the magnetic resonance imaging scanner (it wouldn’t be the first time) or he’d digest a library of information related to respiratory medicine and proceed to try and try and diagnose Peter himself. Which, from ample previous experience, would doubtless end badly. Last time Tony had been allowed access to the team’s medical notes when Clint had landed himself in the medbay with a soaring temperature and a rash, he’d diagnosed the archer with the Bubonic Plague. Clint, who’d been particularly disorientated at the time, had accepted this as truth and (quite understandably) freaked out. That was the first time Steve had truly witnessed how terrifying Phil Coulson could be when given adequate cause to lose his temper, and it wasn’t something the super-soldier was keen to see in repeat any time soon.

Plus Natasha had threatened to disembowel Tony (the threat had likely been legitimate at the time, in the heat of the moment) if he ever pulled a stunt like that again, and the medical staff had demanded by means of a unanimous vote that the billionaire be forcibly removed from the area. Tony had retaliated by giving the medbay’s coffee machine legs and having it follow the chief of medical staff around like a loud, demented, caffeinated shadow.

It had been a _long_ afternoon for Steve.

But there would be time to worry about Tony later, once he was sure that Peter was going to be alright on his own. Currently Steve was torn between wanting to allow the teenager the privacy he deserved as a fellow teammate, and the completely selfish need to be there as a pillar of support when the kid’s protective walls finally crumbled.

He stood from the chair at the bedside, moving to perch on the edge of the mattress instead, his hand shifting from Peter’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck as he leaned in closer.

“Do you want me to step outside for a minute?” he asked softly, his voice a low murmur.

Peter’s breathing had picked up a little; short and shallow, in and out through his nose, lips still clamped together in a thin line. With a minute shake of his head, he finally lowered his gaze from the fixed point on the opposite wall to stare into his lap instead, and his whole posture seemed to sag forward with the movement. The teenager dropped his head into his hands, grinding the heels of his palms against his eyes and making a choked sort of noise in the back of his throat.

Steve’s heart clenched within him, a sympathetic ache building up in his own throat at the sight (because he’d seen Peter cry before, but only twice, and both occasions had been almost unbearable to witness). He ought to leave. He ought to allow him some semblance of privacy and stand outside for a few minutes until the teen had recovered. But in his heart he already knew that he wasn’t going anywhere, not unless the kid directly told him to get lost. So instead he brushed his thumb lightly back and forth where it rested over the too-warm skin on the back of the teenager’s neck and fought down the urge to hug the stuffing out of him.

Peter took a deep, shuddering breath, coughed, and fisted his fringe between his fingers.

“Fuck,” he said, vehemently. Then, a moment later: “Sorry.”

The idea of the kid apologising for swearing in the midst of an emotional breakdown over the possibility of having some alive and non-terrestrial growing in his lungs was almost enough to make Steve smile. Almost. The sight of Peter on the verge of tears kept any possibility of amusement at bay.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, squeezing his nape again gently. “You’re going to be okay, son. We’ll find a way to fix this.”

Peter gave a soft, wobbly laugh, the tone a hairsbreadth shy of hysteria. “Is that a promise, Cap?”

“You bet it is,” Steve confirmed with utter sincerity.

Peter dropped his hands slowly, turning his head a little to glance at him. His eyes were moist and a little bloodshot, and he had this look about him that just screamed _fragile_ in a way that made Steve want to wrap his arms around the kid and shelter him from the rest of the world. _Too young. Too goddam young._ The teenager’s throat moved as he swallowed, likely to ease the ache that had built up there with the strain it took to keep his tears at bay.

“What if it’s not fixable?”

The super-soldier shook his head. “There’s always a way. And SHIELD has the best minds in the world at their disposal; they’ll figure something out. You’re in safe hands.” He waited until Peter gave a shaky sort of nod in acknowledgement, then reiterated softly, unrelentingly: “You’re going to be okay.”

Dropping his gaze, Peter swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and took a few steadying breaths, sniffing a little.

“Sorry,” he said again, after a moment, and there was a note of embarrassment to his voice now. “I just…it all kinda hit me at once. And I feel like shi-” He swallowed the word, wincing. “Sorry.”

Steve finally gave into the urge, sliding his hand across from Peter’s neck to grip the opposite shoulder and tug the kid sideways into a brief, one-armed hug. He’d intended to pull back after a moment, but Peter seemed to sag with the motion, the tension seeping out of him like a punctured balloon as he leaned into the soldier’s side, and Steve certainly wasn’t about to push him away.

“You don’t need to apologise,” he insisted quietly, warmly, his thumb stroking back and forth over the curve of Peter’s shoulder. “It’s a lot for anyone to take in. And you’re already exhausted and fighting a fever; that’s enough to drain a guy just in itself. Honestly, champ, I probably would’ve reacted the same way.”

Peter gave a soft huff of disbelief, but a little more of the tension seeped from his limbs.

“So,” the teen croaked after a long pause, and he was starting to sound a little more like his old self now, “is it strictly necessary for the others to hear about the part where I bawled on your shoulder?”

Steve’s lips curled up in a soft smile. “I think we can keep that part under wraps.”

Peter glanced up with a hopeful sort of look. “Really?”

“Wild horses couldn’t drag it from me,” he promised.

“Don’t know about wild horses,” the teenager mumbled, and it may have been said around a yawn, it was hard to tell with the oxygen mask still in place, “but Tasha can be pretty persuasive.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Peter gave another soft huff, this time of laughter, and leaned into him a little more. “It was nice knowing you, Cap.”

 

OoOoO

 

  
Phil was talking to someone on the phone when Clint arrived at his makeshift office, coffee in one hand and a plastic folder tucked under the opposite arm. The door was already open, but he rapped a knuckle against it anyway to alert the older man to his presence. Phil half-turned towards him, a slow quarter-swivel of his rotating chair that somehow looked way too fucking casual and badass because this was _Phil Coulson_ and he was a talented bastard like that, especially where office furniture was involved. Clint swore the man could make pruning his desktop bonsai tree look like foreplay if he wanted to (and _ohgodyes_ did he want him to).

The senior agent took one look at him and stopped talking mid-sentence. He paused for a long moment with the phone still pressed to his ear, narrowed his eyes in a way that Clint wouldn’t normally have noticed if he hadn’t already been expecting it, and heaved a short, sharp sigh through his nose.

“I’m going to have to call you back, Agent Hill,” he spoke, and abruptly disconnects the call.

Clint gaped at him, flabbergasted. “Did you just hang up on Maria?”

Phil was suddenly up close and personal, studying him with a scrutinising look, a faint line forming between his brows. “What’s wrong?”

“You just hung up on Maria,” Clint reiterated, pointing towards the discarded cell phone with his free hand for emphasis.

“She’ll get over it,” the agent replied smoothly, his expression unchanging. “Something’s happened.”

The archer gave him an innocently curious look. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re wearing that face.”

“Okay, ouch.” Clint pressed his free hand to his sternum, as though wounded. “I thought you liked my face?”

Phil gave him an unimpressed look. It was comforting in its familiarity, even if it was the sort of expression that usually sent junior agents scurrying out from underfoot to make themselves look busy.

Clint gave him an overly cheerful smile in return, lifting the Styrofoam cup by way of a peace offering. “I brought you coffee.”

Phil took it, but his gaze never left the younger man’s. “ _Clint_.”

Abandoning all pretences, the archer sighed, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Fine. But you might want to sit down first. You’re not gonna like it.”

The senior agent complied, but he curled the hand that wasn’t currently holding the coffee cup around Clint’s wrist and tugged the younger man across the room, nudging him into the leather swivel-chair and leaning back against the edge of the desk in front of him. He took a long, slow sip from the cup before arching an eyebrow at Clint expectantly.

“Report, Agent.”

He decided to cut to the chase. “There’s something in Peter’s lungs.”

The other eyebrow arched upwards to join its twin, and that was probably as close as Phil ever came to registering surprise, at least outside of the bedroom (because Clint could be a talented bastard too, with the right motivation, and anything that involved _Phil_ and _naked_ and _bed_ fell into that category).

“Have we managed to ascertain anything more specific than ‘it’s something’?”

Clint heaved another sigh, leaning forward a little to brace his forearms on his thighs, his hands hanging down between his knees and the plastic folder held loosely in his grasp.

“Not really, no. The docs seem pretty stumped. Judging by the general symptoms and Peter’s fever, they’re pretty sure it’s organic; something his body’s still trying to fight off.” He cleared his throat a little. “It also seems to be, uh, growing.”

Phil took a very slow, very careful sip of his coffee. Then another one.

“Growing,” he repeated.

Clint winced. “Said you wouldn’t like it.” He straightened a little from his slouch, offering his partner the folder. “Bruce printed off a few of the scans. They did a full MRI and ultrasound, and a fucking shit-ton of x-rays, but it hasn’t really made anything clearer. The only thing we know for sure is that it’s getting bigger.”

The senior agent was quiet for moment, studying each image and the adjoining footnotes meticulously, his expression unreadable. Finally he closed the folder and set it to one side, rubbing a hand over the lower half of his face in a brief display of fatigue that he likely wouldn’t have shown if there had been anyone other than Clint in the room with him.

“How’s Parker handling the news?” he asked after a pause, reaching again for his discarded coffee.

Clint gave a small shrug. “About as well as can be expected. Steve’s in there with him. Think the kid needs answers more than anything.” He ran his fingers through his hair with a short, sharp sigh. “We don’t even know how the _thing_ got inside him in the first place.”

Phil gave a low hum of acknowledgement, staring into his cup with contemplative sort of frown, clearly pondering the issue himself – either that or Clint hadn’t put enough sugar in his coffee.

“I mean, it’s not like we’ve faced anything particularly alien-ish recently,” the archer continued, tucking his legs up to his chest and bracing his feet on the edge of the chair, resting his arms across his knees. “There was the Doombot attack yesterday, but that was pretty straightforward. And there were those weird electric ghost things kidnapping campers in Redwood Park last week; that took a couple of days to sort out. But aside from that it’s mostly just been crazy scientists and their failed experiments, and even if it was something from one of their freaky labs, we’ve all been exposed to the same stuff.”

“Unless the attack was intentional,” Phil added quietly. “Parker could have been targeted specifically.”

The idea made Clint’s fingers twitch on impulse, longing for his bow. Not that it would serve much good when they still didn’t know anything for certain, but the urge to shoot something was overwhelming.

The gentle brush of warm, calloused fingers against his jaw had him glancing up again to find Phil watching him with a knowing sort of smile. “You know the medical staff get twitchy when you start carrying it around indoors,” the senior agent reminded him. “Bow stays in its case, Barton.”

Clint tilted his head a little, feigning a pout. “How come nobody complains about Nat handling weapons around the docs?”

“Oh, they do,” Phi informed him, dropping his hand and leaning across the desk to grab his discarded cell phone. “I’m just not stupid enough to try and confiscate them. I value the use of both my hands, thank you.”

The archer gave a short, barking laugh. “Well, evidently _not_.” When his partner shot him a questioning look, he grinned and leaned forward in his chair. “You _did_ just hang up on Agent Hill.”

Phil paused, glanced down at the phone in his hand, and reached for his coffee cup instead. 

 

 

OoOoO

 

  
“They’re gonna do _what_?”

Bruce raised his hand in a mollifying gesture, his smile grim and sympathetic. “I know it sounds intrusive,” he agreed softly, “but we need to get a better look at the mass inside your lungs, and the 3D imaging scanners that we have access to aren’t making things any clearer. Seeing it with our own eyes will make it a lot easier to come up with a solution.”

Peter fiddled with the oxygen tubing, trying not to let his nerves show. “So this…” He paused, trying to recall the name and failing rather miserably (although given the way his mind was racing, he was sure nobody would judge him). “This broncho-thing, what exactly does it involve?”

“Bronchoscopy,” Bruce corrected patiently, using his index finger to push his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “It’s a fairly basic procedure. The surgeons put you under for a little while and insert a camera down your trachea and into your lungs, and we record whatever it finds in there. Depending on what the organic matter seems to be and how easily accessible it is, they might do a biopsy. They won’t take much, just a small sample of the substance if they can extract it safely, and hopefully that’ll give us a better idea of what it is when we put it under the microscope.”

“But…” Peter paused and took a steadying breath, trying to suppress the sudden spike of fear that twisted his stomach into knots. “But the docs have always told me to try and avoid situations where I needed any form of anaesthetic. They tested my resistance levels last year, when you guys first brought me here. Drugs don’t really work properly with my body chemistry.”

They had double- and triple-tested him, or so it had seemed, when the team had first brought him to the helicarrier, beaten and bruised and miserable, after the Oscorp incident. It was probably a blessing that he’d been so physically drained and emotionally exhausted, because they’d stabbed him with a hell of a lot of needles and scanned every inch of him. If it hadn’t been for Steve and Clint’s presence during those first few hours, he probably would have protested the extensive medical checks, but at the time he’d been under the impression that the Avengers had taken him into custody for the same reasons that the feds had wanted him. And while he’d been confident enough in his ability to escape police custody, he’d known from the moment Tony had landed on the roof of the Oscorp building behind him and called him by name that the gig had been up. Of _course_ SHIELD had known his identity. They’d known for weeks. He’d been on their radar from the moment he’d started stringing up wanted criminals outside the NYCPD headquarters.

Director Fury had tried to put the fear of God in him by explaining in detail just how much they already knew about his life and his hobbies and his school grades and just how completely-fucking-illegal his vigilante activities had been to date. The effect, however, had been ruined somewhat by Steve making disapproving noises every time the Director so much as raised his voice, and interjecting every five minutes to protest something he didn’t agree with ( _“With all due respect, sir, that seems a little inappropriate.”/ “Now, I’m sure Peter has a good explanation for that, don’t you, son?”/ “Although it may not sound like it, you **do** have a choice here, Peter; and you’re allowed to say no._ ”).  

Although how could he have possibly refused? The events of that week had been solid proof that everything went to shit if you didn’t have backup, and that sometimes even the best-laid plans had flaws and people got hurt as a result. What Fury had been offering him (or threatening him with, rather) was the opportunity to continue doing what he was already doing, but alongside a team of trained superheroes who could back him up when things went sour. It had meant protection from all the other less-than-friendly parties who had been after his ass (police, FBI, Oscorp) for varying reasons. It had meant _financial stability._ And Peter wasn’t a shallow guy by any stretch of the imagination, but that last one had been the clincher. Bills didn’t pay themselves, and as Spider-Man flying solo, he got nothing. As a member of the Avengers, he got full coverage for both himself _and_ Aunt May. That his aunt had gained another seven family members by extension hadn’t hurt, either.

“You _do_ have a greater resistance level to the drug,” Bruce agreed after a moment, snapping Peter out of his memories.

The scientist’s eyes were trained on the screen of his touchpad (which, presumably, displayed the results of the initial SHIELD medical tests). “But you’re not intolerant. We need to keep you away from opiates and neuro-paralytics to be on the safe side, but when it comes to general anaesthetics your rate of induction seems to be pretty on-par with Steve’s.”

Peter shot a sideways glance at the captain, who had remained a steadfast pillar of support beside him ever since his slightly embarrassing breakdown just over an hour ago. Steve didn’t seem to think any worse of him, though. And to be honest, Peter had really, _really_ needed that hug.

The soldier sent him a quiet, reassuring smile in answer to Peter’s unasked question. “I’ve been put under a couple of times,” he said. “Needed a bigger dose, I think, and they had to keep topping me up so that I didn’t come to, but both procedures went through without any hitches. The doctors here know what they’re doing.”

“Dr Miller’s contacted the head anaesthetist from HQ,” Bruce added, switching off the touchpad and folding his hands over it in his lap as he redirected his attention towards the teenager. “He’s the same guy who oversaw both of Steve’s surgeries. It’ll be a couple of hours before he gets here, and another couple after that while the surgeons get debriefed and set everything up, so you’ve got a while to wait, I’m afraid.”

“Kinda used to that by now,” Peter admitted, wiping the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. “Um, I’m guessing I’m nil-by-mouth until the operation’s over with?”

Bruce gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid so. We’re going to need to put you on IV fluids for now – normally you’d be okay for a few hours, but your fever hasn’t shown any signs of going down yet and Miller’s worried you’re sweating out too much fluid. The last thing you need is dehydration on top of everything else, right?”

Peter eyed the cannula in the crook of his arm and sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” They’d only _just_ taken him off the albuterol pump, he’d sort of been hoping that he could ditch the IVs for a while. But he supposed it was better than feeling like shit and dying of thirst.

“How’s your chest feeling?” Bruce asked, standing up from his seat and moving away momentarily to grab a stethoscope from the top drawer of the crash cart.

The teenager shrugged a little. “Okay, I guess. Better than it was at the start. Dr Miller says that if they keep me on hourly nebulisers- _oh shit, that’s cold!”_ He jerked away with an undignified yelp from the icy head of the stethoscope, the cool metal a shock to his fever-hot skin. Bruce gave him an apologetic smile, although there was more smile to it than apology and he could practically _feel_ Steve’s grin. He cleared his throat and continued: “If I can tolerate hourly nebs without my oxygen saturations dipping too low, they can try weaning me off the oxygen. Although he says that probably won’t happen for a while, at least not until the problem’s fixed.”

“Well, at least that’s something to work towards,” Bruce pointed out cheerfully, shifting the too-damn-cold stethoscope a little higher up his chest. “Deep breath for me.”

Peter winced. “Do I have to?”

Bruce’s brow creased a little. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not _technically_ ,” the teenager admitted glumly. “But it makes me cough like crazy, and coughing hurts. Coughing hurts a _lot_.”

The doctor studied him for a moment, the crease in his brow deepening, before pulling the stethoscope out from beneath his shirt and giving his shoulder a comforting pat.

“Alright. We’ll avoid breathing deeply for now,” he acquiesced. “But Peter?”

“Mm?”

Bruce’s expression grew serious. “You need to let me or one of the doctors know straight away if you start bringing up anything other than phlegm when you cough, alright? Especially if it’s blood.”

Peter blanched, a shock of fear zapping through him and awakening the slumbering butterflies in his stomach. “Is…is that something that’s likely to happen?”

“It might do,” Bruce disclosed gently. “The lungs are a pretty delicate organ, especially on the inside. If there’s something in there that’s not supposed to be in there, it’ll be irritating the tissue, causing swelling. That’s one of the reasons it hurts so much to cough. But every time you cough, it rubs a little harder against the tissue, and the capillaries are likely to burst after a while. It’s something we need to keep an eye on, okay?”

Peter gave a slight nod, dropping his gaze to fiddle with the oxygen tubing some more, trying to suppress the unsettling mental image of him upchucking blood all over the sheets.

“ _Pray stand aside, good healer!”_

He perked up instantly, glancing towards the door in surprise at the deep, booming voice that had echoed in from along the corridor. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“When did Thor get here?”

“I shall not surrender to your ministrations until you have allowed me to seek out my comrades,” Thor continued, in a tone that brooked no argument. “It would serve you well to heed my request, Healer; I am in some degree of haste.”

“Just now, by the sounds of it,” Steve remarked with a quiet smile, standing and moving towards the door quickly. He poked his head out into the corridor and glanced to his right. “We’re in here, Thor.”

“Captain!”

There came the rapid, heavy footfalls of someone heading towards them, and even without his Spidey-senses Peter wagered he probably still would have felt the Thunder-god’s vibrations. The man’s method of approach was not entirely dissimilar to the arrival of the T-Rex from _Jurassic Park_.

“Jarvis relayed to me your message,” the Asgardian spoke, pausing outside the room to clap a hand down on Steve’s shoulder with a level of enthusiasm that sounded exceedingly painful (but then the captain was a super-soldier, so maybe such a degree of force felt normal to him). “My sincerest apologies for the delay in my arrival; I fear I may have misplaced my telecommunications device.”

Peter's smile twitched wider. Apparently Tony's prediction about Thor's cell phone had been correct. 

A moment later, the Asgardian spotted Peter over Steve’s shoulder and his brow creased in concern, slipping into the room when the captain stood aside and making a beeline for the bed. Peter braced himself for the usual hearty backslaps or rib-crushing embrace, but no such jovial greeting was forthcoming. Instead Thor laid a large, surprisingly gentle hand on top of his head (and again with the hair, people; it was probably messed up enough already), studying him with no small amount of trepidation.

“What ails you, my young friend? Jarvis could not enlighten me as to the root cause of your condition. Were you injured in battle?”

Thor likely hoped this was the case. He still clutched Mjolnir in his other hand, as though prepared to vanquish Peter’s enemies and reclaim his health (which wasn’t an exaggeration by any means, because those were the exact words the Asgardian had used the last time Peter had been laid up in the infirmary).

“It’s…kinda complicated,” Peter replied, with a quiet sigh. He scooted over a little on the bed and patted the large area of mattress beside him. “Have a seat. This might take a little while.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Feedback would be fantastic, or even just a quick click of the 'kudos' button to let me know what you thought of it.
> 
> I've been working nightshifts this week, which is why this chapter came to you a couple of days late. Hopefully I'll be back on track with the next update on Wednesday. Thanks for being so patient!
> 
> S.C xxx


	5. Mercury's Rising

It was official: counting sheep was probably the most ineffective way of getting to sleep _ever_. Sesame Street had totally lied to him.  

Peter had been trying for the better part of an hour now to follow through with Steve’s suggestion to ‘get some rest’, but the niggling sense of unease in the back of his mind had rendered him on high alert, thoughts and fears tumbling over and over in his head like clothes in a washer. It was maddening.

Still, he could hardly say it was unexpected. It wasn’t every day you found out there was an unknown alien organism rapidly growing in your lung. Or maybe it was. Was this his life now? Juxtaposing between saving the world in red and blue spandex (and looking pretty fucking badass to boot, even if he did say so himself), and coughing up giant lung-slugs in his downtime?

Fuck. He _knew_ he should’ve stuck with photography.

The faintest smidgen of a silver lining to this latest thundercloud was that the doctors weren’t coming in to poke and prod at him every fifteen minutes anymore, Bruce having deemed it unnecessary now that the scans had isolated the cause of his condition to the whatever-the-fuck-it-was that was currently residing in his left lung. Although Peter suspected the lack of disturbances also had a lot to do with the fact that one of SHIELD’s deadliest agents had camped out in the corner of his room and started meticulously cleaning each and every one of his arrows. The young male nurse who had sauntered into the room twenty minutes ago with a cheery _“good morning, Mr Parker!”_ had taken one look at the archer and almost brained himself on the crash cart in his haste to leave again.

Peter hadn’t laughed. Much. (And only because laughing made him cough, and coughing hurt. It had actually been pretty fucking funny.)

At least the room was darker now. Natasha had ‘persuaded’ one of the medics to finally switch off the glaring overhead lights (thank fuck – his eyes had started to feel like they’d been staring into the sun too long), which in turn had activated the blue-tinged ultraviolet beams that bordered the ceiling of the isolation room, basking the area in a murky, blue-tinged glow that was weirdly soothing. The scientific part of his brain (which, admittedly, had gone into temporary hibernation in the face of the whole ‘ _there’s something growing in your lungs and we don’t know what it is’_ situation) pulled up a bunch of half-formed sentences from Mrs Simmons’s physics class during his final semester – something about UV light having sterilization properties and killing bacteria, bla-bla-bla. That was probably their intended purpose, not that Peter really gave a damn; they made his surroundings appear less hostile, and at the moment that was all he cared about.

He still had another few hours to wait until he could undergo the bronchoscopy, and although sleeping the time away was probably the logical thing to do (he was exhausted, and at least it might alleviate the boredom for a little while), the rest of his brain seemed to disagree with that conclusion. His mind just wouldn’t _shut up._

With a short, careful sigh (he was still reluctant to breathe too deeply in case it triggered another coughing fit – they had been growing steadily worse over the past hour or so), he shifted restlessly in the bed, kicking the tangled ball of blankets off his feet in the hope that the additional exposed skin would somehow help to cool the rest of him down. _God_ , the stuffiness of the room was unbearable.

“If you keep fidgetin’, kid, I’m breaking out the duct tape.”

Peter shot a half-hearted glare towards the shadowed corner on the far side of the room where his tired, itching eyes could just about make out the dark silhouette of the man who sat there. Clint was slouched in one of the poorly-padded medbay chairs, his feet propped up on the edge of a sterile (well, not any more) trolley and his legs crossed casually at the ankles. His bow and arrows were back in their case – Peter suspected that the buzz of the archer’s phone a little while ago had been Agent Coulson telling him off for scaring the medical staff – but he’d managed to pilfer a patellar hammer from god-knows-where and was casually spinning it around between the fingers of one hand.

“Nobody said you had to stay and babysit me,” the teenager griped, but it lacked conviction. Truth be told, he was grateful for the company. While his exhaustion may have taken the edge off his anxiety, he still didn’t feel particularly comfortable about the idea of being stuck in medical on his own.

“Yeah, well, who’s to say you wouldn’t pull a Houdini on us if I left you unsupervised?” Clint tossed the medical instrument into the air and caught it neatly in his other hand. “Besides, I promised Cap I’d stay. And you know how he gets that _Look_ ; the one where he’s disappointed and he’s trying really, really hard to pretend that he’s not. It hurts, man.”

Peter knew exactly which _Look_ he was referring to, and in his opinion the word was entirely worthy of the additional emphasis his mind assigned to it. He’d only seen it once or twice himself, and only actually _directed_ at him once. It had been in the wake of an act of poor judgement on his part. Rumours had been floating around about an underground Hydra cell in the heart of the city, and Steve had cautioned him against going out on patrol without backup until the threat had been neutralised. For reasons that he honestly couldn’t remember now, he’d gone out anyway and ended up landing smack-dab in the middle of some sort of black market arms dealership shindig between a bunch of wannabe Hydra goons and some rather unpleasant thugs. He’d been completely outnumbered, and cornered to boot, and if Steve and Clint hadn’t already been tailing him there was a good chance he would have wound up saying ‘hi’ to Saint Peter a few decades ahead of schedule. As it was, he’d managed to hobble away with nothing more than a few superficial cuts and bruises.

Although when they had finally made it back to the Tower and Peter had found himself on the receiving end of that _Look_ , he’d wondered if maybe death would have been the less painful option. He’d also discovered first-hand that Fury’s near-apoplectic rants weren’t a patch on Steve’s calm, firm lectures when it came to overall effectiveness. The Director scared the shit out of him most of the time, but two minutes into Steve’s _“you will never endanger yourself like that again”_ speech and Peter had been genuinely contemplating inventing time travel for the soul purpose of stopping himself from fucking everything up and giving the Captain a reason to feel even the tiniest bit disappointed in him.

Needless to say, he’d never directly disobeyed an order again, and had actively avoided doing anything that might earn him the _Look_ a second time. Once had been more than enough.

He shifted in the bed again, glancing towards Clint’s shadowed figure when it occurred to him that the silence had dragged on for several minutes now. “You haven’t fallen asleep, have you?” he asked curiously. “That would be awkward.”

“Shh,” the archer hushed him in a dismissive sort of manner. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be sleeping, kid.”

Peter arched an amused eyebrow, even though he doubted Clint would be able to see it in the dim lighting. “Did you just ‘shush’ me?”

“Would you like me to do it again?”

“What? No, why would I-”

“Shh.”

“Dude. Are you seriously-”

“Shh.”

“Clint,” Peter protested, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the smile he could feel tugging at the corners of his mouth.  

The back of his neck tingled, a familiar warning buzz that put him on high alert, and he had just enough time to register his muscles tensing before a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye had his hand snapping up to grab the moving projectile out of the air before it could impact with his forehead. He studied the object – a scrunched-up observations chart that Clint had apparently pilfered from one of the clipboards – and tossed it back towards the agent with a roll of his eyes, although his smile hadn’t quite faded.

“Fine, jeez, I’m going to sleep.”

He fidgeted again to get comfortable, reaching behind him to prod at one of the pillows that had somehow squashed itself into a knot against the base of his spine, before flopping back against the padded mound with another sigh. Then he paused, the implication of the other man’s words finally catching up with him, and rolled his head lazily to the side to squint through the blue-tinged haze towards the archer.

“Just to clarify – do you actually _have_ any duct tape?”

“Course not,” Clint dismissed, a little too quickly. There was a beat of silence before he added, muttering: “Tasha confiscated it.”

Peter’s laugh took him so much by surprise that he ended up choking on it, hunching forwards a little to cough wetly. It rattled in his chest, reigniting the sharp ache there as a glob of something thick and tacky began working its way up in his throat (ugh, gross, he was so done with this shit). He fumbled blindly for the box of tissues Bruce had left for him on the bedside table, vision blurring as his eyes watered. Shoving his oxygen mask up over his nose, he grabbed a handful of tissues and spat the mouthful of phlegm into them, grimacing in both pain and disgust. He took a slow, steadying breath, this one rasping in with a squeaky wheeze, but the wet sound had temporarily abated. Panic over.

“Is it alive?” Clint queried after a beat, mildly curious.

Peter gave another croaky, breathless of huff of laughter. “Shut up.”

But he took a peek at the contents of the tissue, just in case. Satisfied that he hadn’t hacked up any space bugs, he folded the material into a wad and dropped it into the small plastic biohazard tub that Dr Miller had left on the floor between the front wheels of the bedside table. There were already a good two-dozen wadded balls of tissue in there, and the medical staff had whisked away at least four samples in mini plastic sputum pots; realistically, how much more gunk could his lung hold?

“That was totally your fault,” he added hoarsely, rubbing the heel of his palm against his sternum in a fruitless attempt to lessen the intense, fiery ache that burned there.

“Yeah, probably,” Clint conceded, and the shadow in the corner shifted as the archer lowered his feet from the edge of the tray and stood smoothly. He snagged a rolling stool and pushed off from the wall to propel himself over to the bedside, the glow from the overhead UV lights brighter here and giving the archer’s skin an unearthly blue tinge. “You alright?”

“Mm,” Peter confirmed, although his chest actually-really-kinda hurt a lot. The sudden, too-loud beeping of the monitors above him made him jump and he cursed, craning his head back to glare up at them. “Ugh, would you _stop?_ ”

Clint’s hand obscured his vision for a moment as the agent carefully tugged the oxygen mask back down again. “Might actually help if you kept this on, genius.”

“ _You_ keep it on,” the teen griped, realising belatedly that his comeback was well below par and Clint would only take delight in the fact. A quick glance at his teammate’s knowing grin was all the confirmation he needed and he sighed again, letting his head flop back against the pillows. “Shut up.”

Silence fell, and although it was a comfortable one, Peter felt the niggling worries at the back of his mind start worming their way to the front (and sweet Jesus, he seriously needed to stop with the insect-related comparisons, he was already feeling a phantom itching coming from inside his chest). He shifted against the sweat-damp sheets uncomfortably, his brow creasing a little.

“Clint?”

The archer braced an elbow against the mattress, propping his chin up in his hand. “Mm?”

Peter kept his gaze trained on the ceiling, the dim lighting making the squares of the metal grating blend into a hazy, shadowed blur. He fiddled with the oxygen tubing, worrying the thin length of plastic between his fingers and wetting his bottom lip with his tongue.

“If a freaky slug creature bursts out of my chest _Alien_ -style, you’ll shoot it for me, right?”

“Fuck yeah,” Clint replied vehemently.

“Not that it’s necessarily a slug,” a voice interjected from the other side of the room, and Peter glanced over to see Bruce standing in the doorway. “Or even ‘alive’ at all in that sense. It might just be a growing pocket of infection.”

Clint gave Peter’s shoulder a supportive pat and offered, “I’d be happy to shoot that too, if you like.”

Ignoring him for a moment, the teenager pushed himself a little more upright (he only had to move an inch or so, given the fact that the mound of pillows already had him at an eighty-degree angle), focusing his attention on the older scientist.

“Any update on the broncho-thingy?”

Bruce shook his head apologetically, moving further into the room. “Nothing yet, I’m afraid. We’re still waiting on a couple of specialists arriving.” He stopped at the foot of the bed, taking in the overheard monitors at a glance. “I heard the alarms go off, is everything alright?”

Peter nodded with another short, careful sigh, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Everything’s fine. I’m just bored.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched into a smile as he moved around to the side of the bed so that he could check the IV cannula. “You were so bored the alarms went off?”

“Thought it might liven things up a bit,” the teen quipped. “Clint was starting to nod off.”

The archer prodded him in the shoulder. “Lies and slander, doc,” he insisted. “Itsy Bitsy here took his mask off, that’s all.”

“Peter,” Bruce began, gently chiding, and the teenager held up a hand in surrender.

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “I pulled it up so I could cough, and I forgot about it, okay? My brain’s kinda mush right now.”

Bruce squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. “You should try to get some rest. It’ll be another couple of hours at least until we can put you under.”

With a nod and another sigh, Peter leaned back against the pillows, grimacing when the movement wafted cool air against his sweat-soaked shirt, an unpleasant reminder of all the places that the damp fabric was clinging to. One of the nurses had kindly offered him a fresh pair of scrubs to wear before the lights had been dimmed (and although he had refused the pants – because fucking hell, he was roasting enough already just in his boxers – he had gladly accepted the clean top to replace his damp t-shirt), but he was definitely going to need another one soon. Or maybe he’d just ditch clothing altogether, dignity be damned, before he melted into a pool of Spidey-goo.

“Is Thor still getting tested?” Clint queried, spinning aimlessly from side to side on the swivel-stool. “I know Steve’s running damage control with Tony, Phil told me about the microwave incident, but-”

“Wait, what?” Peter interrupted, perking up. “What microwave incident?”

Clint waved his hand dismissively, but he was grinning. “Stark tried to outfit the staffroom microwave with disco lights to ‘boost morale’.”

“It was supposed to play ‘ _Night Fever’_ by the Bee Gees,” Bruce tacked on in a casual tone, although Peter heard the undercurrent of fond amusement there. “I think he hotwired the speaker from his backup cell phone to the control panel, but it backfired.”

Peter glanced between them, eyebrows arched. “He’s only been gone for, like, an hour. And where the hell did he get disco lights from?”

“Fuck if I know, man,” Clint answered, shaking his head. “He’s Tony Stark, he lives for pulling obscure metallic objects out of metaphorical hats. Anyway, not important.” He reached across Peter’s torso to prod Bruce in the arm. “Where’s Thor?”

Bruce removed his glasses, cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief from his pocket. “There was a…minor setback in the testing process,” he hedged, the corner of his mouth twitching again in a way that suggested he was trying not to laugh. “Dr Shepherd had a little difficulty in getting a blood sample. He broke half a dozen hypodermics within the first twenty minutes, and when I arrived he looked about ready to start drilling in with a bore needle.”

Clint snorted. “That would’ve gone down well. Did you tell him that he’d have better luck trying to pierce wood with a plastic straw?”

“Something to that effect.” Bruce gave into his smile at last, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure Thor was just humouring him the whole time; he knows we can’t take blood samples. Granted, he _was_ on the phone to Dr Foster, so it’s possible he didn’t actually realise what was going on.”

“You want me to go and harass Shepherd into letting him go?” the archer offered. “It will genuinely be my pleasure, the man’s a dick.”

“Nah, we’re good.” Bruce pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “I persuaded Shepherd to hand over the exam to Dr Miller; at least Jason knows what he’s doing.”

“And he knows how to take a joke,” Clint added. “Wherever they hired him from, they need to go back for seconds. He’s new, right?”

The scientist nodded. “Fury hired him last month.”

“Poor bastard.”

Peter was only half-listening to their conversation, the suffocating heat of the room making him restless and uncomfortable, ears buzzing and blood thrumming hot beneath his skin. He could feel the sweat where it had plastered his fringe to his forehead, a bead of it slowly working its way down his temple, a liquid tickle, and he lifted a hand to swipe at it in frustration.

Fuck it. He was going to asphyxiate in this heat if he didn’t do something. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and all that.

“Hey, whoa, what are you doing?” Clint asked, catching hold of his wrist to stop him when he began to yank the oxygen mask off.

“Ditching the shirt,” Peter replied, tugging against the archer’s grip until his arm was released and then leaning forward to give himself enough room to pull the garment over his head. It was awkward, his limbs weak and uncoordinated, and the sensation of literally _peeling_ the sweat-soaked fabric from his body was disgusting, but the immediate rush of cool air against his burning skin felt _incredible_.

He hit a snag when he realised that the he couldn’t actually pull the shirt off over the damn IV line connecting him to the bag of fluids by the bed, and was genuinely contemplating yanking the cannula out of his arm for a moment until Bruce calmly intervened. Gloves had appeared on the scientists hands out of nowhere (either Peter’s senses were being adversely effected by the fever or the doctor was getting more sneaky), and the older man had clamped off the line, disconnected it and chucked the shirt onto the floor all within the blink of an eye.

“Better?” Bruce asked him kindly, carefully reattaching the screw-tip of the line and unclamping it to allow the flow of fluid to continue.

“Hell yeah,” Peter sighed, and there may or may not have been a slightly embarrassing sort of moan in the words (at least with the dim lighting and weird, blue-tinted glow to the room, they wouldn’t be able to see his immediate blush). “Thought I was gonna melt for a moment there.”

He made as though to lean back again, but Clint’s arm stopped him. “One sec, bud.” With his free hand, the archer deftly flipped the stack of pillows over so that when he nudged Peter back down against them, he sank into the cooler, non-sweaty side. Holy fuck, that felt nice.

“I might just be a little bit in love with you right now,” the teen murmured faintly, closing his eyes for a blissful moment as the fire in his skin cooled down a couple of notches.

Clint gave a short huff of laughter, and Peter felt fingers skim through his damp hair, spiking it at the front in a way that probably looked fucking ridiculous. Asshole.

“I take it back,” he grumbled, nose wrinkling as he twitched his head away in a half-hearted effort to escape the man’s unwanted ministrations, his eyes still closed. “You suck.”

“Good to know,” Clint replied, and Peter could hear the smile in his voice. “Phil’s a jealous bastard, he doesn’t like sharing.”

Peter jerked his head away again, more sharply this time, when something cold nudged against his ear. His reflexes (although somewhat dulled by fever and exhaustion) kicked in immediately, a hand snapping out automatically to grab the whatever-it-was before it could touch him again, eyes flying open.

“Sorry.” Bruce’s smile was more of a wince. “That was unprofessional, I should’ve said something. I’m just checking your temperature, okay?”

The teenager relaxed again, tilting his head a little to the side so that the scientist could insert the tip of the aural thermometer. His hearing was still overly sensitive, and the high-pitched electronic _beep_ of the device made him flinch, but he bore it without complaint, glancing at Bruce as the doctor studied the reading with a line between his brows. Peter’s stomach did that sickening twisty thing that it had been doing fairly regularly over the past few hours and shifted a little in the bed, fiddling with the oxygen tubing again.

“Not good?”

Bruce flashed him a brief, grim smile and set the device to one side. Under the murky-blue UV lights, the lines of fatigue were clearer, dark smudges beneath the man’s eyes that spoke of too many late nights and too little coffee, and Peter had the sudden urge to insist that Bruce take the bed instead of him. The teenager was tired, sure; but he wasn’t _that_ tired. Bruce looked exhausted. And _old._

“It could be better,” the doctor admitted, reaching for Peter’s discarded oxygen mask and carefully slipping it back on, adjusting the elastic ties so that it sat snugly against Peter’s face. “I’ll go see if I can hunt down a couple of fans for you. That should help to lower your skin temperature, at any rate.”

“Oh _god,”_ Peter murmured, fervently. “You’re my favourite, you know that, right?”

Bruce’s lips twitched up in a smile, a few of the lines on his face smoothing over as he gave Peter’s shoulder a parting squeeze. “I’ll be back in a little while. Try to get some rest, okay?”

Peter doubted he’d have much success, because his mind still wouldn’t shut the fuck up regardless of how knackered the rest of him felt, but he nodded anyway for Bruce’s sake and obligingly closed his eyes.

_Back to counting sheep, I guess._

  
 

OoOoO

   
  


Steve leaned against the doorjamb to the washroom, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Tony as he rubbed at the sooty smudges that marred his skin with pink-tinged surgical scrub. The engineer was a mess, his t-shirt and slacks smeared with soot, his hair sticking up at odd angles in a way that suggested Tony had been tugging at it and running his fingers through it; a habit he fell into when something was frustrating him. Steve wanted to smooth it down again, the pass his hand over it and feel the tacky resistance of the hair gel he knew Tony used, to thread his own fingers through it and feel the short strands brush against his skin. Except he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, because that would be intrusive. However much he’d daydreamed about doing just that.

“You gonna start with the ‘ _what the hell were you thinking_ ’ lecture?” Tony spoke, turning on the tap with his elbow and rinsing off the soap. “Or are you too pissed at me even for that?”

Steve sighed, wishing that Tony would lift his head, would _look_ at him. He hated talking to the tense set of neck and shoulders. “I’m not mad at you, Tony.”

That, at least, brought the other man’s eyes up, meeting Steve’s gaze in the mirror above the sink, one eyebrow arching.

“No?”

“No,” Steve echoed calmly. “Was it stupid? Yes, a little bit. This is a medical facility, not a workshop, and we’re lucky there was a fire extinguisher nearby.” He sighed again, uncrossing his arms and reaching up to rub the back of his neck, dropping his own gaze to the pristine washroom floor. “But I know why you did it. And compared to what could have happened, there was minimal damage, and you cleared up the worst of it yourself before Fury even caught wind of it; so no harm done, right? Besides,” he dropped his hand and gave a one-shouldered shrug, “I think we’re all itching to something a little stupid at the moment. I was never any good at waiting games.”

Tony gave a soft, amused huff, turning off the tap with his elbow and shaking the excess droplets of water from his skin. “Huh. I always pinned you for the patient, chess-playing type.”

“Actually,” Steve admitted, with a self-deprecating sort of smile, “I can’t stand chess. Patience is one thing, but immobility is another.”

The engineer arched an eyebrow, glancing at him in the mirror. “Bullshit. I’ve seen you sit in the same spot for hours on end, sketching away, happy as Larry.”

The super-soldier shrugged again. “Sketching’s different. Productive. And the pencil never stops moving.” He flexed his right hand. “God, what I’d give for a scrap of paper and a pencil right about now.”

Tony finally turned around to face him, grabbing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and roughly scrubbing his arms dry.

“There’s one of your sketchbooks and a tin of watercolours in my duffel,” he disclosed, not quite meeting Steve’s gaze. “They were sitting on one of the benches in the workshop when I ran down to grab some crap before we left, so…” He cleared his throat awkwardly, tossing the wad of damp paper towels towards the trash can. “It’s there, if you want it.”

Steve realised he was staring and gave himself a mental shake, feeling a familiar surge of warmth in his chest. “Tony…”

“I know you probably have a thing about people touching your stuff, I get it, I have a thing about people touching stuff too,” the engineer blathered on, running his fingers through his hair to neaten it (although he only succeeded in making it stick up even more). “But I figured, you know, why not? You might get bored and decide to sketch a stethoscope or something, who knows? What do you even sketch in that thing anyway, are you like a people-sketcher or an object-sketcher, because I’ve been reliably informed by another blond badass that there are separate techniques involved and I have to be honest, I’m not much of an artist myself unless there’s a computer there to sketch out the blueprints, and it’s really only lines of code that I have to input-”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted softly, and he knew he was smiling, he couldn’t help it. He waited until Tony’s gaze locked with his own before adding, warmly: “Thanks for grabbing the sketchbook for me.”

Shrugging, Tony waved away the gratitude, although Steve could tell by the way his posture eased a little that he was pleased. “No biggie.”

There was a dark smudge of soot sitting high up on Tony’s cheek, and Steve was having difficulty tearing his eyes away from it. It hadn’t been fully visible before, Tony having tilted his head down a little to survey the state of his slacks, but now he knew it was there it was near-impossible to ignore. He raised a hand to tap his own cheek.

“You, um, you’ve got a…”

“Hm?” Tony scrubbed at the wrong cheek with the back of his hand, then looked at it to see if anything had come off on his skin. He scrubbed a little harder and glanced back towards Steve, dropping his hand. “Gone?”

Steve breathed a soft, amused laugh, shaking his head. All Tony had done was paint a pink splodge against his cheekbone where he’d rubbed the skin too hard. “No, it’s…” He gestured vaguely towards Tony’s face. “Sorry, it’s on the other cheek.”

Tony turned back towards the mirror above the sink, tilting his head to examine the sooty smear and grabbing a paper towel from the adjacent dispenser, wetting it under the tap. He scrubbed at the mark for a moment, surveyed his reflection again, and half-turned towards Steve, tilting his head this way and that.

“Better?”

It was worse. Much, much worse. Because now the engineer sported two pink splodges, one on each cheek, and it almost looked like he was blushing. It was a _good_ look. And Steve’s mouth had gone a little dry. Goddamn it, he hated this; hated the way it made him feel, hated the fact that he was powerless to stop it, the knowledge that he would always _want_ but could never _have_. It was enough to drive a man to distraction.

“Perfect,” he managed, and if Tony noticed the strained quality to his voice, he didn’t say anything. Steve cleared his throat and glanced down at his watch. “I’m gonna go check on Peter. You coming?”

He realised a moment too late that it had come across as an expectation rather than an offer, but Tony didn’t seem to mind the difference.

“Sure.” The engineer shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks and strolling towards him. “On one condition.”

“Which is?” Steve queried mildly, as they strode side-by-side down the corridor towards the isolation wing.

Tony waggled his eyebrows in an unnecessarily attractive way. “Coffee first.”

The super-soldier shot him a suspicious glance. “What number’s this one?”

“Five,” Tony replied without missing a beat. “Although technically it’s three, and that’s entirely Clint’s fault; bastard stuck decaf in the pot for the first two rounds and hoarded the good stuff for Coulson.”

“In all fairness, Phil probably needed it more than you,” Steve reasoned. “I don’t think his phone’s stopped ringing since we arrived.”

Tony gasped melodramatically, spinning around and pressing a hand over his arc reactor as though pained. “Rogers! You’re supposed to be on my side, not Agent-Agent’s. I thought you loved me?”

 _I do_ , was his mind’s automatic response, and a bittersweet sort of ache lanced through him, which he quickly quashed with the fierce determination of someone who’d being doing it every day for months now.

“Just making an observation,” he replied evasively, after a pause that went on perhaps a millisecond too long. Eager to press on, he nudged Tony lightly in the arm. “Come on; coffee’s waiting.”

“Bossy,” Tony grouched, but turned around again and resumed walking. “You’re lucky I like you so much.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed with a quiet sigh, pausing for a moment and watching him go. “Yeah, I am.” 

  
  


* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And disaster doth befall she who dependeth overmuch upon her wifi router. 
> 
> Seriously, readers, I didn't realise quite how much I depended on internet access to function as an individual until it was gone. Like a hole in my heart, I tell you. Good news is, the new router arrived in the post this morning and everything's hunky-dory again. Huzzah! Chapter 6 is also mostly complete, thanks to having fewer distractions these past 10 internetless days, so next Tuesday's update is guaranteed to be on time. :) 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter (and the story in general). Please feel free to leave a comment down below!


	6. Cabin Fever

 

In Clint’s defence, he couldn’t possibly have anticipated that his casual origami fix would result in full-on warfare of the paper airplane variety.   

He’d actually been aiming the damn thing at Tony, hoping to goad the mechanic into watching Netflix on the hijacked medical screen with the rest of the team rather than sulking in the corner with his Starkpad (because apparently his perusal of the available medical journals had so far failed to provide a suitable, non-body-snatchers-related diagnosis for Peter’s condition, and if there was one thing Tony hated, it was unsolvable puzzles). Bugging him with texts had proven to be ineffective, so Clint had swiped a fluid balance chart from the small stack of papers sitting on top of a nearby filing cabinet, folding it into a small-but-deadly airplane that he’d previously dubbed ‘The Romanov’ and sending it sailing over towards Stark’s side of the room.

Unfortunately, he’d neglected to factor Peter’s Spidey-senses into the flight plan. The moment the projectile had passed above his bed, the teenager’s arm had shot up to grab the plane mid-flight, almost punching Thor in the process.

“Shi--oot, sorry,” Peter stuttered, lowering his arm again quickly with a guilty sideways glance at Steve for the almost-slip. Then he shot Clint an annoyed look (although there was clearly amusement there too, beneath the creased brow and the exaggerated pout and the pale, sweat-drenched skin that gave the overall impression of _sick and cranky_ ). “Dude. You could warn a guy.”

The archer, grinning both at Peter’s disgruntlement and his total inability to swear in front of Captain America (despite the fact that Steve had quite the mouth on him, under duress), merely winked and blew him a kiss.

“A curious item,” Thor remarked, plucking it from Peter’s lax grip with the hand that wasn’t already holding the teen against him and lifting it up to study at eye-level, turning it this way and that. “What purpose does it serve?”

Clint drew a blank on that one. “Erm…”

“Vengeance,” Tony informed him with relish, glancing up from his research with a familiar grin. “The art of paper manipulation stems from the ancient Midgardian tradition of besting your enemies with superior aeronautical engineering prowess.”

Thor hadn’t looked so enthralled about something since Clint had introduced him to Fluffernutter sandwiches.

“Indeed?” He surveyed the plane with a newfound respect in his gaze. “Then it is a tool used to demonstrate one’s strategic intelligence?”

“Not quite,” Peter interjected kindly from where he still sat half-slumped in feverish exhaustion against Thor’s side, reaching up to pat the Asgardian’s chest. “You’re supposed to see how far you can make it fly before it touches the ground. Or use it as a dart and see how many times you can nab your opponent in the chest. Like dodgeball, only with paper and _way_ fewer injuries.”

“Still, ‘tis an impressive feat to fashion such a weapon from nought but parchment,” Thor stated keenly, glancing up from the airplane to beam at Clint. “Truly there are no limits to your knowledge and skill, my friend. Might I request that you divulge the secrets of their creation?”

“You want me to teach you how to make paper planes?” Clint reiterated.

And that, upon reflection, was probably where things had taken a turn for the crazy.

Less than five minutes later, he’d somehow found himself leading a comprehensive workshop on the art of paper airplane manufacturing, sitting at the end of Peter’s bed with the footboard digging into the small of his back and the teenager’s feet resting in the concave of his crossed legs, fingers deftly smoothing down straight edges and sharp angles, the lined medical paper rasping against the callouses of his skin as he flattened out the creases. Ever the resourceful one, Tony had managed to fashion them a worktable, of sorts; the engineer had somehow gotten his hands on three of the narrow bedside tables (the wheeled ones with the support struts only one side of the frame so that the base could be pushed underneath the bed to allow the full length of the table to span the horizontal width of the mattress) and lashed them together with duct tape to keep them from rolling away. The team had gathered around it like this was a fucking re-enactment of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table or something, but given that Thor was the only one among them who would actually make the cut if they were to audition for an Arthurian-era costume drama (that, and the table was very definitely rectangular), Clint discarded the notion as a potential career option and instead focused on demonstrating how to make a basic eight-fold airplane to the gathered team of Superhero misfits.

For a guy who hadn’t even been aware of the existence of paper airplanes ten minutes ago, Thor was pretty quick on the uptake and, with Peter’s assistance, had fashioned himself a passable excuse for a plane in a matter of minutes. The aircraft’s launch could have been a little less forceful, but it managed to fly a fair few metres in a rapid descent before hitting the ground and skittering across the PVC flooring, coming to a halt near the doorway.

With a loud, booming laugh, Thor clapped Peter on the shoulder hard enough to jerk the kid forward a couple of inches and proclaimed, “Another!”

Peter, wincing and rolling his aching shoulder, obligingly passed him a second sheet of paper and scooted a little closer to Steve’s side of the bed out of instinctual self-preservation.

Tony, as expected, ended up creating giant paper monstrosities which only vaguely resembled standard airplanes and that really, truly shouldn’t have worked in practice but somehow did. His unique models were comprised of several sheets of paper torn into strips and folded neatly into the mainframe of the plane’s body, creating wing flaps and rudders and horizontal stabilisers which ought to have weighed the plane down to the extent that it would nose-dive the moment Stark let it go. But clearly the man’s ‘aeronautical engineering prowess’ paid off, because the plane sailed smoothly from one end of the room to the other without losing so much as an inch in height.

Tony, being the smug bastard that he was, promptly fashioned himself a paper hat and wrote ‘ _Stark Airways’_ across the front of it in dark blue sharpie like he was a goddamned aircraft pilot.

Peter had laughed so hard that he’d started to cough, and coughed so hard that he’d almost puked, and there had been a temporary scramble to disassemble their makeshift desk in case this became a reality. It proved to be a false alarm, however, and once Peter had managed to catch his breath, he shot Tony a wincing sort of grin, gave him a thumbs-up and croaked, “Nice hat.”

Crisis averted. And, perhaps for the first time in the four hours that had passed since the whole _“oh look, there’s giant splodge in your left lung and oh, by the way, it’s growing”_ revelation, Peter seemed to have forgotten about the impending surgical procedure. It might have just been Clint’s imagination, but he was pretty sure there was a collective sense of satisfaction among the rest of the team as the teenager avidly refocused his attention on designing his own plane.

And because nobody had _technically_ specified that this was a planes-only workstation, Natasha chose to go against the trend and construct something that Clint highly doubted was meant to resemble an aircraft, folding two rectangular half-sheets of paper a dozen times in an intricate pattern to create what looked like two mini, sharp-angled boomerangs.

“Hey,” Tony complained when he finally caught on, pointing towards Natasha in a way that was reminiscent of Clint’s kindergarten days ( _‘-but Miss Taylor, why can’t **I** stick crayons up my nose? Michael’s doin’ it!’_ ). “Hey, what is that? That’s not an aircraft. Barton, your girlfriend’s cheating.”

Natasha glanced up from her work – a deliberately slow, drawn-out roll of her eyes – and fixed Stark with a calm stare, one corner of her mouth twisting up in a dangerous half-smile that likely fuelled the nightmares of at least two-thirds of the junior agents currently under SHIELD’s employ.

Apparently possessing enough common sense to recognise a no-go zone when he saw one, Tony raised his hands in surrender.  “Okay, got it, not his girlfriend.”

Peter made a strangled sort of squeaky sound, and Clint glanced up sharply (because if the kid was about to start upchucking giant alien slugs all over the table, he wanted to be armed with something a little more deadly than a handful of paper planes). However, the teenager’s eyes were fixed on Natasha’s collection of wonky-looking boomerangs and his expression was closer to awe than terror.

“Is that a ninja star?”

Interest piqued, Clint abandoned his own half-finished Quinjet in favour of watching the redhead as she overlapped two of the disjointed-looking boomerangs and began tucking the triangular points into the folded seams near the centre. He felt a grin begin to bloom.

“Well, shit,” he said, a laugh in his voice, and flopped back against the footboard of the bed, resting his arms on top of it as he shook his head, smiling. “Sorry, folks. Tasha wins this round.”

“What?” Tony demanded, affronted. “Are you kidding me? Romanov makes something into a weapon – _again_ – and suddenly she gets all the glory? Have you _seen_ this thing of beauty?” He held up his latest model – another unnecessarily large, bulky-looking paper monstrosity – and flipped it the right way up. Even incomplete, Clint could tell that it was a scale-size replica of the helicarrier. “Stark Airways definitely takes the lead with this one.”

Clint arched an eyebrow. “That thing doesn’t really look like it’s built for flying, man.”

“It doesn’t fly, it hovers,” the mechanic replied with a dignified sniff. “Or at least it will do once I’ve managed to construct a rudimentary propulsion system out of paperclips, hydrocel capsules and surgical tape.”

Clint gave an inward wince at the s-word, eyes darting across to Peter, but the teenager was still fully absorbed in watching Natasha add the finishing touches to her Shuriken.

“They’re supposed to be _paper_ planes, Tony,” he spoke, reaching for a new sheet from the stack in the centre of their makeshift worktable. “Kinda defeats the point if you resort to using other materials.” He tapped a finger to his chin, considering Stark’s model. “Nope, sorry. Think I’m gonna have to automatically disqualify your entry from the league table.”

Tony slammed a hand down on the surface of the table, although it lacked any real force and Clint could see the amusement underpinning his ire.

“Objection! This is a conspiracy. Also, who elected Barton as the judge? I don’t remember voting. We need a re-election, he sucks. I mean _c’mon_ ,” he gestured emphatically towards the Shuriken, which Natasha was now twirling between her fingers with the ease of someone who handled such weapons on a regular basis (although not usually the paper kind), “that’s not even an aircraft! How the hell does that qualify?”

“Dude,” Peter murmured, still in awe as he eyed the finished product appreciatively. “She made a _ninja star_. Out of _paper_. Trust me, that qualifies.”

Tony clutched a hand to his chest dramatically, looking betrayed, and was clearly about to descend into another rant when Natasha’s fingers uncurled, a sharp flicker of movement in contrast to her perfect, immobile poise, and sent the Shuriken hurtling towards Stark. It struck the mechanic’s paper hat dead-on, knocking it clean off his head and sending it tumbling down onto the table in front of him.

Closing his mouth with an audible snap, Tony’s gaze dropped to his fallen headgear, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before flickering back up to meet Natasha’s, his gaze dark and full of intent. He extended his arm slowly, using his thumb and index finger to flick the fallen Shuriken back towards the Russian agent.

“I hope you realise what this means, Romanov.”

Natasha merely arched an eyebrow, catching the ninja star without even looking before it could skitter off the edge of the table.

Repositioning the hat on his perfectly-gelled hair, Tony’s grin was all teeth. “This means war.”

Okay, so maybe Clint _should_ have anticipated this sudden turn of events. Realistically, regardless of the underlying severity of their current situation (which was hard to ignore, what with Peter providing a frequent audio accompaniment of deep, hacking coughs), they _were_ The Avengers. When they weren’t battling giant space wasps or taking down underground Hydra units, they were beating the shit out of each other in the training rooms or squabbling over whose turn it was to make the popcorn on movie nights. It had been plain naïve to assume that things wouldn’t escalate from a competition of skill to a battle of epic proportions.

Rather than fulfilling his usual role as the Voice Of Reason, Steve (who, as it had transpired, was an absolute pro at folding paper planes, and had made a good dozen by the time Tony had finished his third _‘Starkship Enterprise’_ ) surprised them all by immediately teaming up with Peter and Tony. To be honest, it threw Clint off a bit; he wasn’t used to Steve letting his metaphorical hair down so easily. But clearly Cap really, really liked paper planes, and hey, who was he to judge? Clint liked them too.

Steve’s team staked their claim on Peter’s bed as their ‘base of command’ for the simple, logical reason that the teenager wasn’t physically capable of leaving it of his own volition without faceplanting on the floor or strangling himself on the oxygen tubing. Tony stole a roll of mepore tape from a nearby medical cart and attached a sheet of paper to the footboard of the bed, _‘Captain Iron-Spider Rules’_ scrawled across it in blue sharpie because Tony was obviously five years old. He then proceeded to fashion identical air-hostess-type hats for both of his teammates, much to Steve’s consternation.

That left Clint, Thor and Natasha with the challenge of constructing a base of their own out of plastic chairs and the medbay’s crash cart, swiping a fresh stack of papers from the filing cabinet so that they could stock up on ammo. There was a general consensus between the two teams that the battle would be put on hold while sufficient artillery was manufactured, and for several minutes the only sound in the room was the raspy rustle of paper being folded and smoothed, and Tony’s deliberately loud stage-whispers as he mapped out an obviously false strategy (or so Clint assumed, because the plan seemed to involve using plastic fish as a diversion tactic, and he figured there _had_ to be a limit to the amount of random crap that Stark could feasibly stuff into his workshop duffle bag).

“Did I miss something?”

Clint glanced over to where Bruce stood in the doorway and grinned, tossing one of the two-dozen spare paper airplanes his way. “Doc! Pick a side. Trust me, you don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

Bruce’s shoulders were slumped a little, the weariness clear in the lines on his face and the smudges under his eyes, but he was smiling as he fumbled to catch the plane, turning it over in his hands and glancing between the two ‘teams’.

“I’m guessing there’s no neutral ground here?”

Tony snapped his fingers and pointed at him, wearing his ‘ _I have an idea and it’s actually a really good one_ ’ face, which was often difficult to distinguish from his _‘I have a fucking awful idea that’s probably going to land me in medical for six weeks_ ’ face. Actually, upon reflection, the two were entirely interchangeable, but given that the current situation didn’t necessitate the use of anything potentially hazardous, Clint felt confident enough to assume that Stark wasn’t about to suggest anything too impulsive.

“Umpire!” Tony declared, grinning broadly. He spread his arms out towards the other scientist in a grand, welcoming gesture. “Brucie, baby, we need an umpire, and I trust your judgement. You’re not biased, unlike _some_ people.” He shot Clint a narrow-eyed look. “All those in favour of nominating Banner as our referee?”

Everyone’s hands came up, even Natasha’s, because apparently he’d been right about the kindergarten comparison all along and he was surrounded by children. Peter had a legitimate excuse for it, given that he _was_ a kid, but Clint was pretty sure the rest of them were past that. Shit, they hadn’t even been in quarantine for a full day and the madness was already setting in.

And dear god, when had _he_ suddenly become the voice of reason? Yuck.

“Only if you’re not busy,” Steve chipped in, and Clint gave an inward sigh of relief at the knowledge that somebody else was going to be the adult here. “It’d be great to have you, but don’t feel pressured into it.”

“I think I can spare fifteen minutes,” Bruce replied, the smile growing warmer for a moment before he cleared his throat and sent the paper plane soaring back across the room towards Clint. Boosting himself up to sit on a low filing cabinet against the wall, he slid his pen from the top pocket of his shirt and grabbed a spare sheet of paper for himself, quickly sketching out a rough tally board. “What are the rules?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Rules?” Tony echoed, with an expression that suggested the word tasted unpleasant on his tongue.

“Rules,” Bruce repeated, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. “Are we using a specific point system?”

Thor chose that moment to do a test launch of one of his own planes, which (because it flew the full force of Thor Odinson behind it) sailed clean across the room and struck Tony in the forehead with a resounding _‘thwack’_. The engineer rocked back on his heels with the force of it, blinking, before lowering his gaze to where the plane now lay on the mattress beside Peter’s hip, the nose a little bent from the strength of the impact.

“My apologies,” Thor called, his demeanour contrite as he crossed the perimeter of their ‘base’ and stepped into No Man’s Land. “It was not my intention to-”

The Asgardian was silenced by the soft, answering _‘thwack’_ of Peter’s paper airplane against his muscular chest.

“Bruce,” Tony interrupted with a growing smile as he gave the teenager a pat on the head, selecting another plane of his own from the stack piled up beside him. “Call it.”

The physicist glanced between them for a long moment, then pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose again and leaned forward, all business. “Head shot’s a ten,” he announced calmly, as though judging origami aircraft battles was something he did on a daily basis. “Chest shot’s a five. Anywhere else is a one. I’ll deduct points if a plane hits anyone in the eye. Bonus points if you knock Tony’s hat off.”

And that, really, was all the invitation they needed. Clint would have liked to pretend that it was an organised battle where cunning and strategy played a huge part in appointing his team the victors, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. Within a matter of minutes, the whole thing had dissolved into chaos.

Needless to say, Tony’s hat did not survive.

  
 

OoOoO

 

 

“What I _need_ , Coulson, are some goddamn answers.”

Phil internalised his sigh, despite his rapidly dwindling patience, resisting the urge to reach up and massage the pulsing throb that had begun to accumulate behind his temples. The SHIELD director had already taken their conversation in a full circle, and was apparently having a hard time believing that his senior agent was unable to produce the answers he was seeking out of thin air.

“I know that, sir,” Phil conciliated. “Unfortunately, both the tox-screen and the microbiology report haven’t proven to be as illuminating as we’d hoped. Other than a mildly increased white cell count, Parker’s blood chemistry remains unchanged, which suggests the foreign body in his lung is isolated to that specific area alone.”

Fury’s glower, if anything, grew darker. “Yes, thank you, Agent. I gathered that from your previous two updates. Are you seriously trying to tell me that my highly-trained, highly-paid team of medical experts – handpicked by myself for their various pioneering scientific achievements, I might add – don’t have anything new to contribute after _two damn hours?_ ”

The senior SHIELD handler blinked at him, unmoved. “To be fair, with the results from the lab being inconclusive, they don’t really have much to go on. But they’ve been keeping you apprised of any information deemed relevant to Parker’s-”

“Information?” Fury echoed, eyebrow arching, his voice rocketing up a couple of decibels, sounding a little tinny through the speakers of the vid-screen. “What ‘information’ might that be, Coulson? All Banner and Miller have told me so far is that there’s something potentially lethal growing in Parker’s chest and nobody knows _shit_ about it.” He shook his head, taking a sip of what Coulson suspected was something a little stronger than water and glancing away, muttering to himself, “Keeping me apprised, my ass.”

He mumbled something else unintelligible, tilting his head back briskly to drain the glass and setting the tumbler down on his desk with a soft ‘ _thunk’_ before redirecting his attention towards Phil. “Have the surgical specialists from Headquarters arrived yet?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Phil confirmed.

“Then what’s the damn holdup?”

“Doctor Miller assures me they’re moving things along as fast as they can,” Phil replied calmly. “Due to Parker’s… _unique_ body chemistry, it’ll be necessary to diverge from standard surgical procedure, and the anticipatory stage of the planning process is proving to be a little more longwinded than we’d initially estimated. Given that Parker has been known to react adversely to certain drugs in the past, they aren’t keen to play it by ear – a sentiment shared by myself and the rest of the team, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Fury’s frown grew concerned rather than irate. “Are you suggesting that the operation could pose a threat to Parker’s health?”

Phil heaved a short, sharp sigh, his brow pinched. “He hasn’t undergone a procedure using general anaesthetic since acquiring his abilities. We don’t know what adverse side-effects he might experience as a result. Unfortunately, given that we’ve run out of hazard-free options, it’s a necessary risk.”

“And what about the procedure itself?” Fury pressed, cradling the empty glass between his fingers and looking at it in a way that suggested he was sorely tempted to poor himself another.

“The bronchoscopy?” Phil gave a minute shake of his head. “Miller says it’s a pretty straightforward procedure, and the associated risks are minimal.” He paused for a brief second, and added, carefully, “Unless, of course, the foreign body proves to be hostile.”

“And the chances of that are…?”

Phil sighed again. “Regrettably, sir, at this point in time we simply-”

“-don’t know _shit_ ,” Fury finished for him, resigned. “Should’ve seen that one coming.” He steepled his fingers together beneath his chin, elbows braced on the edge of his desk as his gaze turned serious. “Do I need to put a security detail together? Since nobody seems to know what the fuck it is, I think it’s prudent that we take the necessary precautions to prevent any unwanted _incidents_.”

“I’ve taken care of it, sir. Agents Romanov and Barton have already agreed to provide defensive support in the event of a hostile situation arising. There’s a secure observation room adjacent to the surgical bay, we can watch the procedure from there.” His lips twitched. “And the rest of the team will be in the isolation room down the hall; I doubt containment will be an issue if the foreign body somehow becomes mobile.”

Fury nodded, apparently satisfied, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Fine. Let me know when the docs are ready to begin the procedure; I want everyone on full alert in case this whole thing blows up.”

Phil secretly hoped the Director had finally gotten the worst of it out of his system; their conversation certainly seemed to have reached a point where it would be appropriate to dismiss himself. Usually Phil had more patience for this sort of thing, but he disliked quarantine procedures as much as the next agent, and eight hours in this windowless office had worn that patience paper-thin. He wanted another coffee, but seven cups would be pushing it, even for him, and his headache wouldn’t thank him for the caffeine crash an hour from now. He probably ought to eat something, too; it had been a long time since dinner last night. And despite his preference to avoid taking analgesia on the job, it might prove necessary if he had to continue playing mediator between eleven different faculties, all of whom seemed determined to tweak standard quarantine protocols to suit their own needs.

 “Oh, and another thing,” Fury continued, in a pleasant tone that suggested he knew _exactly_ how much Phil wanted to disconnect the call (that bastard). “Would you care to explain why my CMO has filed four separate incident reports within the past three hours regarding your team’s behaviour?”

Phil blinked, curious but not at all surprised by the information. “Sir?”

Leaning over to retrieve a touchpad from somewhere off-screen, the director held it up within the frame of the camera (Nick had always possessed a flair for the dramatic – hence the leather trench coat), eyebrow arched as he read: “Unnecessary use of weaponry in the presence of medical staff. Verbally aggressive behaviour and/or legal threats made against medical staff without apparent provocation. Deliberate misuse of medical resources. Damage and/or loss of vital electrical equipment.”

Fury shifted his gaze from the touchpad to fix Coulson with another expectant look. “That last report came with an attached a request form regarding Stark’s immediate upgrade to a level-five quarantine subject.”

His lips twitched once at that, but Phil recovered quickly. While the prospect of having Stark locked up in a sealed quarantine tank for a few hours was a tempting one (very, _very_ tempting), the request was entirely unwarranted, given that Tony  had shown no signs of developing respiratory symptoms.

“With all due respect, sir,” he spoke neutrally, “Dr Shepherd’s a bit of a dick.”

“I’m well aware of the fact,” Fury agreed, tossing the touchpad back onto his desk. “I hired him. But I won’t pretend that I wasn’t tempted to grant his request at first, especially after hearing about a certain incident that occurred in the staffroom involving Stark and an unfortunate piece of equipment. Care to elaborate on the rumours for me?”

The headache pulsed a little more, but Phil muscled past the urge to put his head in his hands, sighing softly to himself.

“There was an unfortunate altercation between Mr Stark and the microwave in the staffroom. Damage was minimal, and Stark’s already made arrangements for a suitable replacement. I didn’t feel that it was necessary to inform you of the situation.”

“So I gathered,” Fury bit out. “Are there any other situations that you’ve assumed I _don’t_ need to know about?”

It was an authority thing, plain and simple. Nick didn’t usually give a damn about the on-the-side Avengers antics provided that they didn’t cause any international incidents, but given that Phil didn’t currently have all the answers he was looking for (which, admittedly, didn’t happen very often), the Director was being uncharacteristically pushy.

Well, two could play at that game.

Phil gave him a mild, pleasant smile. “The Avengers have spent the better part of the last hour throwing paper airplanes at each other. Consequently, two staff members have already submitted their transfer requests, effective immediately. Mr Stark is threatening to install fish tanks in the walls to, and I quote, ‘liven the place up a bit’. But other than that, sir, nothing to report.”

Fury stared at him for a long moment, scowling. “You’re right,” he concluded flatly. “I really don’t need to know.” And he abruptly disconnected the call.

Phil chose to count that as a victory.

Finally letting his head sink into his hands, he exhaled a long, weary sigh and used the tips of his fingers to massage the tension from the tightened muscles in his brow. He heard a whisper of movement behind him, the soft _‘click’_ of the door being closed, and he knew who it was without even turning around just by the familiar stride and pace of booted feet as the man crossed the room. There was a squeak of styrofoam against wood as something was set down on the desk beside him, but Phil decided against raising his head from his hands when familiar, talented fingers dug into the cramped knots in his shoulders and began kneading out the tension.

“You work too hard,” Clint grouched, ghosting a kiss against the back of his neck. “Was that Fury demanding an update again?”

“Mm,” Phil grunted, head dropping down a little lower when Clint’s thumbs dug into the nape of his neck, because _dear God_ , it felt good. He really ought to put a stop to it. There were professional boundaries they tried not to cross outside of his own office, and if Clint kept doing _that_ to him, Phil couldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

“Did you tell him to fuck off and find his own answers?”

“No.” The senior agent’s lips twitched even as he ground the heels of his palms against his eyes to diminish the hot itch of fatigue. “But I’ll keep that phrase in mind in case he calls me again within the next twenty minutes.”

“You do that.” Clint slid his hands either side of Phil’s neck, then down the front of his suit, fingers smoothing and straightening his tie as the archer’s arms came around him, hooked over his shoulders.  Warm lips brushed against the sensitive skin beneath Phil’s ear. “Stop working, Boss. I brought you lunch. Or brunch, technically, since you skipped breakfast.”

Phil finally opened his eyes at that, dropping his hands from his face and blinking away the silver dots from his vision to glance at the styrofoam cafeteria box sitting near his empty coffee cup, a bottle of water and a packet of mini frosted donuts resting beside it. His lips twitched again, even as he arched an eyebrow and reached up to place his hands over the ones that lay against his chest, squeezing them lightly.

“Clint,” he began, his tone deceptively mild. “Did you break quarantine to bring me food?”

“No, sir,” the archer assured him innocently, his words a warm puff of air against Phil’s neck. “I just pulled a few strings. Raked in a few debts.”

The agent's smile twitched wider. “You blackmailed the canteen staff into doing delivery again, didn’t you?”

“In my defence, sir, they seem to enjoy being blackmailed.”

“I bet they do,” Phil agreed, and he couldn’t hide the note of amusement this time. “I seem to recall it wasn’t so easy for you to flirt your way into my good books when we first met.”

Clint gave a short, surprised huff of laughter at that. “No, you made me work for it. Which is fine; I like it when you play hard to get.”

The archer withdrew his arms so that he could circle Phil’s chair and boost himself up onto the edge of the desk, opening the styrofoam box and showing his partner the contents. “BLT, no mayo, extra bacon.”

Phil took it with an appreciative hum and a grateful smile, but it faded quickly when his eyes zoned in on a darkened reddish-purplish mark sitting high up on Clint’s cheekbone, just beneath the outer corner of his right eye. A quick glance at the archer’s arms and hands produced no indication of defensive wounds, and since he was pretty sure he would’ve heard about it sooner if Clint had gotten into fisticuffs with a member of medical staff (his partner had a short temper, these things happened, but the paperwork was always a nightmare and there were now protocols in place to ensure that he was notified ASAP if an incident occurred), he had to assume that the injury accidental.

He took a bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly as he continued to scrutinise the younger man’s face, more for the enjoyment of seeing Clint try to act casual (and fail abysmally, because Coulson prided himself in his ability to make people squirm) than anything else.

“Where did you get that?”

“The canteen, sir.” Clint smiled charmingly, acting for all the world like he didn’t know exactly what Phil was referring to. “I thought we’d covered that.”

Phil reached up with the hand that wasn’t already holding the sandwich, using his thumb and forefinger to gently tilt Clint’s head to one side so that he could survey the mark better. “Do I need to write this up?”

“Nope,” the archer said blithely, popping the ‘p’.

“Barton.”

Clint shook his head, nibbling on a slice of tomato that had fallen out of the sandwich and into the bottom of the styrofoam container. “It’s nothing,” he dismissed. “Goldilocks elbowed me.”

Phil watched him with a blank expression for a long moment, taking another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Cocked an eyebrow. “Do I need to have another chat with Thor about inappropriate interpersonal conduct outside of training sessions?”

“Nah, we’re good.” Clint assured him, grinning. “He was trying to lob a paper-boulder at the _Starkship Enterprise_ ; my face got in the way of his backward swing. No biggie.”

“Did you ice it?”

Clint levelled him with a slightly insulted look. “It was his elbow, Phil, not Mjolnir.”

“Is there a difference?” Phil asked pointedly, but didn’t press the issue further. He swivelled the chair a couple of inches to the side so that he faced the archer squarely, settling his free hand on the younger man’s ankle when Clint’s booted feet came up to rest either side of his thighs. “Were you the only casualty?”

“Other than Stark’s wounded pride,” Clint confirmed with a telling smile. “And Peter tired himself out to the extent that he might finally shut up get some goddamn sleep, so there’s that.”

His tone was gruff, but Phil knew it was mostly for show to hide the fact that Clint was worried about the teenager. The younger agent didn’t handle _worried_ very well. Better than Natasha did, but that really wasn’t saying much. She tended to threaten people with knives when her mood was off.

“Bruce said the surgeons finally decided to show up?” Clint asked, closing the empty styrofoam container and lobbing it across the room to land neatly in the trash can near the door.

Phil nodded, reaching for the bottle of water and offering Clint the last bite of his sandwich, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation when the archer used it as an excuse to suck Phil’s thumb into his mouth to clean off the sauce.

“Behave,” he warned, but it lacked conviction, and Clint just grinned around the appendage and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “No, Barton. One, this is not my office; two, I have no control over the CCTV footage in this area; and three, there’s an eighty percent chance Director Fury is about to call me back in five minutes to ask me why I haven’t figured it all out yet.”

Clint’s grin didn’t lessen, but he did release Phil’s thumb. “Never stopped us before, sir.”

“If that were true, Agent, I’d never get any paperwork done.” Phil shoved at him gently until Clint grudgingly hopped off the desk, but caught the younger man by the front of his shirt and tugged him down into a quick kiss, pulling away again before the archer could escalate things further. “Thank you for lunch.”

Clint’s smile softened, became something more genuine that Phil was selfishly pleased to know the rest of mankind was rarely allowed to see. The younger agent leaned his hip against the side of Phil’s chair and dipped his head again to steal another kiss, slipping something into his handler’s pocket and grinning against his mouth.

“You can thank me for _that_ later.”

Then the archer was gone, slipping quietly out of the room, the door closing behind him with a soft _‘click’_. Phil shook his head, a quiet smile on his lips even as he reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve the item Clint had left there. If it turned out to be a box of condoms (again), he and the younger agent would need to have _Words_ when they finally got out of quarantine. They’d need to have a fair amount of something else afterwards, too, but _Words_ would certainly be involved initially.

However, the mystery object turned out to be a small, cylindrical bottle of Tylenol pills, which was infinitely better than condoms at the present moment. He knocked two of them back with a swig of water and slipped the bottle back into his jacket, reaching for the frosted donuts with one hand and his touchpad with the other. With any luck, he might be able to make some headway with the reassignment paperwork before Director Fury found something else to complain to him about at great length.  


 

OoOoO

  
  
  


Tony eyed the large, standard-issue fan with a contemplative expression. “All I’m saying is that if I tweaked the rotor just a _little_ bit-”

“No,” Steve interjected, calmly but firmly, glancing up from where he’d been scouring the nooks and crannies of the isolation room for any stray paper airplanes that they had missed in the initial clean-up session. “It’s working just fine as it is, Tony.”

“Tell that to the Mr Pyroclastic over there,” the engineer argued, gesturing to where Peter sat propped up against the pillows, sweat gleaming against his skin in the blue-tinged glow of the UV lights, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with perspiration.

“M’okay,” the teenager croaked, but given that he hadn’t stopped looking like shit in the time it took to answer, Tony felt he couldn’t really take his word for it. Peter’s eyes narrowed a bit when he realised Tony wasn’t going to back down on the issue. “If upgrading the fan means turning it off for fifteen minutes, then please don’t. I need that fan _to live_.”

Tony scoffed quietly, but reclaimed his seat in the chair at the bedside, resting his folded arms on the mattress. “I wouldn’t have broken it.”

“Mm,” Peter grunted disbelievingly, the corner of his mouth twitching up, and Tony flicked the teenager’s hand in retribution.

“Brat. You’re so fired.”

“Okay.” The teenager closed his eyes, still smiling. “Does that mean you’ll stop waking me up at seven in the morning on weekends?”

“No. It just means you won’t be getting a Christmas bonus this year.”

“Comrades!” Thor proclaimed, stepping back into the room from wherever the fuck he’d run off to ten minutes ago. The Asgardian had one of Natasha’s ninja stars tucked behind his ear like a decorative hairpiece, and he still looked unfairly masculine in spite of it. “I come with glad tidings. And a compress.”

Peter perked up at that, although apparently he lacked the energy to do more than open his eyes and look vaguely hopeful. “A compress? For me?”

“Indeed,” Thor confirmed with a warm smile and a hearty chuckle, moving to the bedside so that he could lay the damp washcloth over Peter’s brow. “Bruce feared you were suffering overmuch, despite the false winds created by these fine machines.” He indicated the fans that surrounded the bed with a sweep of his hand. “He requested that I locate something cool for your head in the hope that it would lessen your torment.”

Peter reached up clumsily to pat the man’s arm, a drunken sort of smile on his face. “Thanks, man.”

“You said you came with ‘glad tidings’?” Steve prompted, moving to perch on the edge of the mattress beside Peter as Thor took a seat on the bedside table. It creaked ominously under his weight. “Do we have an update on the situation?”

Thor inclined his head. “Aye. It seems the Healers have finished debating their plan of action. Bruce believes they will be ready to begin the procedure shortly.”

Peter tensed up visibly, but took a slow, rattling breath and relaxed again, nodding. “Okay. Good. That's good.”

Tony felt a twist of unease within him at the teenager’s obvious uncertainty. It wasn’t an emotion he particularly liked to associate with the kid. He reached for his discarded Starkpad; if in doubt, create a distraction.

“Sure, but what does ‘shortly’ mean, anyway? Could still be a while before anything exciting happens.” He offered the pad to the teenager briskly. “C’mon, kid, I’m bored; pick something.”

He didn’t miss Peter’s grateful look as the younger man took the device from his hands, surveying the Netflix page briefly before grinning and selecting _The Emporer’s New Groove_ from the ‘Favourites’ list. Tony narrowed his eyes suspiciously in response to the teenager’s knowing look as the engineer activated the remote transmitter to interlink the pad with the large medical display screen that hung near the opposite wall.

“What’s that look for, Parker?”

Peter only smiled at him, the epitome of innocence. “Nothing. Just wondering if _that_ movie being high up on your top-ten favourites list technically counts as narcissism.”

Steve made a muffled sort of choking sound, and Tony glanced up to see him hiding a smile behind his hand. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the super-soldier.

“Hey. Zip it, Pacha.”

Thor glanced between them, his brow creasing. “I believe this is beyond my understanding.”

“Shh,” Peter hissed, flapping an arm in his general direction without looking away from the screen. “It’s starting.”

In hindsight, choosing a comedy probably hadn’t been a smart plan. Ten minutes in and Tony had to make a grab for the box of tissues when a burst of laughter from the teenager turned into a coughing fit. Steve settled a hand on the kid’s shoulder, his expression tight with worry when the coughing didn’t subside after several minutes, but Peter waved away their concern with the hand that wasn’t clutching the tissues to his mouth, hunching forwards a little as he coughed harder.

It sounded wet and painful, and judging by the way Peter grimaced and pressed a hand against his chest, that’s exactly how it felt. Tony pointedly looked away, allowing the kid a smidgen of dignity while he hacked up another glob of potentially-alien-excreted gloop from his lungs, turning up the volume on the screen in a fruitless attempt to drown out the awful rattling sound of each gasping inhale.

Finally the coughing stopped, and Tony felt himself relax again, turning the volume back down so that they weren’t all deafened by Kuzco’s witty monologue.

“Um…guys?” Peter croaked, his voice sounding faint and uneven, and it was the unusual tone that had Tony’s eyes darting sideways to look at him.

Even in the murky-blue UV lighting, Tony could tell that all the colour had drained from Peter’s face. The teenager was sitting bolt-upright in the bed, staring at the wad of tissues in his hand with wide eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. He lowered his hand a little so that the others could see.  

“That…that’s not supposed to be happening, is it?”

Tony didn’t need to lean in close to see what he was referring to. The wad of tissues in his hand now sported a large, dark stain in the centre. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what it was.

 “Thor,” Steve spoke, with the forced sort of calm he often used mid-battle when everything had just gone to hell. The super-soldier had already circled an arm around Peter’s shoulders, his free hand gently pulling the oxygen mask back down again over the teen’s nose and mouth. “I need you to go and find a doctor.”

Thor didn’t need to be told twice; he was off the bedside table and hurtling out of the door without so much as a split second’s hesitation, his voice a booming echo as he jogged off down the corridor in search of aid.

“It’s fine,” Tony found himself saying, although where the hell the words were coming from he had no idea because obviously _it_ _wasn’t fucking fine._ He muted the movie before the background audio could drive him insane, nudging Peter lightly in the arm. “Hey. The docs said this might happen, remember? You’ve been coughing up your kidneys for hours now; you’ve probably just damaged a few capillaries.”

Peter gave a slow, hesitant sort of nod, although his eyes were still glued to the bloodied tissues in his hand. Steve wrapped his arm around the teenager a little more, meeting Tony’s gaze over the kid’s head, his mouth set in a grim line and concern etched deep into the contours of his face. It was an expression that Tony had only witnessed a handful of times, and it didn’t do much to put him at ease.

“Hey.” Bruce moved quickly across the room and over to the bedside, Dr Miller half a step behind him and Thor bringing up the rear. The physicist took one look at the wad of crimson-stained tissues and nodded briskly, pulling a glove from his pocket and using it to take the material from Peter’s lax grip, tossing them both into the toxic waste receptacle on the floor beside the bed.

“Okay,” he murmured, with the sort of absolute calm that put Tony on edge, because when Bruce was being _this_ calm, it meant the situation was serious. “You’re okay. We expected there might be a little blood if your cough didn’t start to improve. How’s your chest feeling?”

Peter continued to take short, shallow breaths, his jaw set and his shoulders hunched forwards. “Hurts,” he admitted tightly.

Bruce glanced over his shoulder towards Miller, and apparently there must have been some form of nonverbal communication between them, because the younger doctor gave a brief nod and promptly left again as swiftly as he’d arrived. Bruce moved to perch on the edge of the mattress beside Peter’s legs, resting a hand on his knee.

“Jason’s gone to let the surgical team know that we need to get the procedure underway,” he explained calmly. “The sooner we take a look inside your lung, the sooner we can figure out how to put a stop to these coughing episodes.”

Peter nodded tiredly, sagging a bit against Steve’s side, and Bruce gave his knee another gentle squeeze. “I’ll be in the recovery room when they put you under,” he promised. “And I’ll be watching the operation through the observation window with Clint and Natasha.”

“Didn’t realise I was so popular,” Peter tried to joke, but the waver in his voice made it fall flat.

Bruce smiled anyway, still with the same calm intensity. “The surgical team we’ve called in are the best of the best, Peter,” he reassured, quiet and sincere. “You’re in safe hands.”

 

‘Safe hands’, as it would later transpire, was a rather loose term. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who thought this was an update - my apologies! I returned from my holiday abroad a few days ago and discovered a bunch of typos/phrasing errors in this chapter, so I tweaked it a little. 
> 
> But worry not! Now that I'm back on British soil, the next chapter should be up and posted within the week. :) Also, thank you for all the kind comments and support on this chapter! I'll get to work on replying to all of them once I'm back from work tomorrow.
> 
> xxx


	7. Please Remain Seated (and Keep Your Arms and Legs In At All Times)

Holy shit, this place was _freezing_.  

Peter would have been grateful for the brief reprieve from the fierce, uncomfortable heat that had burned beneath his skin for the past ten hours if his surroundings had perhaps been just a _few_ degrees warmer, but the surgical prep room he’d been left in by the med-team a couple of minutes ago wasn’t cold so much as _Arctic._ He was still only dressed in boxer shorts, sweat rapidly cooling against skin that had turned to gooseflesh, jaw muscles aching with the effort it took to keep his teeth from chattering.

And it wasn’t just the temperature of his surroundings that sent shivers down his spine. The room all but screamed _sterile_ ; the furnishings sparse and predominantly made out of metal, glass-fronted cabinets lining the wall to his right and a row of blinking touch-screens mounted above the countertop to his left. An unhelpfully morbid part of his mind put two and two together and whispered ‘ _laboratory’_. He suppressed a shudder, clenching his fingers tightly into the cooling bedsheets beneath him.

“Cold?” a familiar voice asked kindly.

Peter glanced over towards the entrance and did a double-take at the man’s unusual attire, his lips twitching up in a faint grin despite the nervous churning of his stomach. “Looking sharp there, Doc,” he rasped hoarsely. “Not sure the colour suits you, though.”

“It’s not something I’d wear out on a date,” Bruce agreed with a wry smile as he approached the bed, peering down at the lime-green scrubs that hung loosely from his slight frame. “But they weren’t going to let me in here wearing my own clothes; sterile environment, and all that. It was either this or a hazmat suit, and the Other Guy tends to get a little…claustrophobic in those things.”

The scientist had a standard-issue blanket tucked under one arm, which he unfurled quickly and draped over Peter, covering him from toe to chin and providing a much-needed insulating barrier from the icy air of the room. Bruce even went so far as to tuck it in around him.

“Thanks,” Peter said, infusing as much gratitude as he could into the word because _thank fuck_ for blankets, he was pretty sure his extremities had begun developing frostbite.

A shrill alarm from the overhead monitor began to sound, startling them both, and Bruce took in the readings at a glance before reaching up quickly to silence it with a gentle tap at the corner of the screen. Peter eyed him worriedly as the doctor leaned over to fiddle with the gage on the oxygen flow meter.

“Your sats are dropping,” Bruce explained, glancing back at the monitors and pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose as he studied Peter’s vitals. “I’ve put you on five litres for now, but if it drops again we’ll have to switch you back to a mask.”

Peter nodded, pulling a face when the increased flow of cool air made his nose itch. He adjusted the nasal prongs until they were in a more comfortable position, heaving a short sigh as he let his hand drop back down again. Having temporarily forgotten that sighing was currently number one on his list of ‘ _things to avoid doing until further notice’_ , the teenager was forced to hold his breath for a long, tense moment against the tickling threat of a cough. When he released it again after the urge had passed, he could’ve sworn he saw it mist in the frigid air above him. His brow furrowed fractionally, and he shot a sideways glance at Bruce.

“Any reason why they’ve cranked down the thermostat in here?”

“They’re trying to limit the risk of cross-contamination,” the scientist answered, wheeling a stool over to the bedside and taking a seat, glancing towards the pair of airlock-sealed doors that led into the operating theatre. “Working on the assumption that the organism growing in your lung – like most infectious agents – prefers a warm, moist environment, we’ve tried to make the _O.R._ as inhospitable as possible.”

Peter suppressed another shudder at the reminder of the unknown _thing_ that a team of SHIELD-employed surgeons were potentially about to dig out of his lung. He risked a quick glance towards the floor-to-ceiling transparent doors that connected the prep-room to the adjoiningsurgical bay, curious and a little afraid of what he’d see there.

There were too many things going on for him to take in at once, too many strangers in navy hazmat suits whose physique seemed better suited to hefting a rifle rather than wielding a scalpel. Although he supposed it made sense; SHIELD tended to recruit their agents from Special Forces and ex-military cohorts, why not do the same with their surgeons? Still, the respiratory specialist who’d come through to introduce himself a few minutes ago was built like Thor (something Peter hadn’t thought humanly possible without specific scientific interventions like super-serum or gamma rays), and he was pretty sure you couldn’t get muscles like that just from working out regularly in the gym. It was a little disconcerting. Peter was genuinely impressed that they’d even managed to squeeze the man’s muscle mass into one of those SHIELD regulation hazmat suits – albeit one that had clearly been altered to allow the wearer to don surgical gloves, the blue nitrile fitting the doctor’s plate-sized hands like a second skin.

But seriously, no joke, the man could probably crush his lung like a paper cup if he wanted to. Good thing he seemed like a decent enough guy, or Peter would have been internally flipping the fuck out even more than he already was.

“We’ll be watching the procedure from over there,” Bruce mentioned, as though sensing that Peter’s thoughts had begun spiralling downwards into a pit of illogical anxieties. The teenager followed his gaze to a large window built into the far wall of the operating theatre, the glass tinted so that it was impossible to see the observation room that he assumed lay beyond it. “We’re not gonna let things get out of hand. I know how you feel about unauthorised bio-testing.”

Peter felt himself relax a fraction further, finally tearing his eyes away from the activity of the operating room to give the physicist another grateful look. Bruce was probably the only other person on the team who really _did_ fully understand his concerns when it came to being the subject of medical investigation. They were both the living product of scientific experiments, and while Peter had spent months avoiding dentist appointments and medical checks and being careful to avoid getting hurt as much as possible (because it had been difficult to explain away the sudden disappearance of day-old bruises when his cellular regeneration kicked in unhelpfully), Bruce had spent two years running halfway across the world from everyone and everything remotely related to science. Peter knew he’d had it pretty easy by comparison, but it was kinda nice, in a way, that he wasn’t the only guy on the team with a legitimate fear of other scientists.

“Besides,” Bruce added, and there was a spark of amusement in his eyes, “I’m pretty sure Agent Coulson’s already threatened them into contractual compliance.”

That coaxed another weary half-grin out of the teenager. “Aw, he likes me.”

“I think you’d already know about it if he didn’t.” Bruce’s answering smile was secretive, almost teasing. “I’ve heard rumours about what happens to SHIELD personnel who get on the wrong side of him.”

“Well, you can’t always trust the rumour mill,” Peter reasoned, his voice cracking a bit when something rasped in his throat. “Unless you and Tony actually _are_ romantically involved?”

Bruce choked on a laugh. “We’re what?”

Peter gave a slight shrug, the picture of innocence. “Probably didn’t help that he kissed you at that charity benefit thing last month. Extensively.”

“He was being hounded by middle-aged women,” the scientist explained calmly. “I was his pre-arranged get-out-of-jail-free card. Totally platonic.”

Peter cleared his throat carefully to hide a laugh, unwilling to trigger yet another coughing fit and determined to shift the glob of gunk that he could feel stuck there. Bruce obligingly passed him a tissue and waited patiently until he was done before holding up the infectious waste receptacle so that Peter could dispose of it.

The doors to the operating room suddenly hissed open to allow a tall, broad-shouldered individual to step into the room. His smile was close-lipped and professional behind the protective screen of his hazmat helmet as he wheeled a tray over to the bedside.

“Good afternoon, Mr Parker,” he greeted with falsely cheerful enthusiasm. “I’m Dr Batterjee, your anaesthetist for this afternoon’s procedure. How are you feeling?”

Peter didn’t consider himself to be a rude sort of person, but fever and fatigue had robbed him of the patience required to feign niceties with strangers.

“Oh, _real_ good. Can’t you tell?”

He felt a momentary twinge of regret, but then he saw Bruce discretely hiding a smile behind his hand and the feeling passed. Totally worth it.

To his credit, the anaesthetist just chuckled and gave Peter what was probably supposed to be a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr Parker,” he flashed his professional, bland smile a second time, “I’ve performed thousands of operations over the course of my career, and I’ve been with SHIELD for almost a decade; I’ve seen everything there is to see. You’re in safe hands.”

Peter was torn between relief at having someone experienced in charge of his sedation, and an irrational sense of annoyance that the unknown organism growing inside his lung apparently didn’t qualify as anything new or exciting in this guy’s books.  

“We’re hitting you with a pretty hefty dose of Diprivan to accommodate for your body’s rate of induction,” the doctor informed him, attaching a screw-lock syringe to the connection line that ran into the cannula at the crook of Peter’s arm. “And it’s likely that I’ll need to continue adjusting the dosage during the operation to keep you safely under. You might feel a little rough coming out the other side.”

Peter wanted to point out that he felt far from peachy at the moment, but he figured insulting the guy responsible for keeping you alive and pain-free during surgery wasn’t the wisest thing to do, so he kept his mouth shut.

His stomach was still twisting itself into knots, though. He almost wanted to depress the plunger on the syringe himself just to hurry things along and get it over with; this waiting game was torturous.

“You ready?” Bruce asked him quietly, the older man’s hand closing over his own in a reassuring grip.

“Yeah,” Peter managed, and even if it came out a little croaky he was pretty sure nobody would judge him for it. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m ready.”

“Alright, Mr Parker,” Dr Batterjee spoke, slowly pushing the milky-white contents of the syringe into the IV line. “I need you to count backwards from ten for me.”

Peter kept his eyes on Bruce, focusing on the warmth in his gaze and the strength of his grip where he still clasped Peter’s hand.

“Ten,” he rasped, his eyes already itching with fatigue, “nine, eight…”

The back of his neck tingled, a familiar warning as his body tried to release a burst of adrenaline in response to the sudden presence of the Diprivan in his bloodstream. The fatigue vanished for a split second, his eyelids snapping open again from their half-mast position, wrenching him from his semi-relaxed state with sharp jerk. The effect was not entirely unlike being doused with cold water. However, the plunger on the syringe kept moving and only moments later he was hit by another wave of exhaustion, the force of it more powerful this time. The tingling grew stronger, more insistent, and the sensation was uncomfortable and alarming in equal measure. The panic must have shown on his face, because a moment later Bruce’s other hand came up to settle lightly in his hair.

“Keep counting, Peter,” he encouraged softly. “Just relax, don’t fight it.”

He didn’t really have a lot of choice in the matter. His eyelids were already drooping lower, fatigue rolling over him in crushing waves, his body pinned to the mattress by leaden weights.

“Seven,” he continued faintly, the word slurring a little, his lips as slow as his foggy mind. “Six…five…”

The frigid air of the room was a distant memory now; everything was warm, almost too warm, hazy in a way that made him feel drunk. He couldn’t say for certain that the surface beneath him was entirely solid – it seemed to bob gently up and down like he was a boat waiting in dock. And still the panic hadn’t faded, the tingling at the back of his neck a throbbing ache that made him yearn to get away, to find someplace safe.

Sound wasn’t a thing anymore, either. None of his things were working properly. Bad, bad things. He could see Bruce’s lips moving through the narrow slits where his eyelids had yet to slide completely closed, but the words never quite reached his ears, a pulsing sort of _‘whoosh-whoosh’_ noise echoing there instead as he let himself sink deeper and deeper into the liquid warmth of his surroundings.

He was asleep before he reached ‘three’.

 

**o~O~o**

 

 

Steve balanced the styrofoam containers carefully on top of one another, propping his chin on top of the stack for good measure and closing the two-way access port in the transparent isolation screen.

“Thanks for doing this, Jasper,” he said, shooting another grateful smile towards the man who stood on the other side of the airlock-sealed doors. “I owe you one.”

Agent Sitwell waved away the gratitude with a casual gesture. “It’s the least I could do, Captain. I’ve been stuck in quarantine often enough to know how crap the food is. How’s everyone holding up?”

The soldier gave a one-shouldered shrug, careful not to upset the stack of cafeteria containers. “We’ve managed to avoid causing any serious property damage,” he replied, because that was probably about as good as the situation was going to get, all things considered. “There was an incident involving a microwave, but Tony’s rectified that. It’s more of a waiting game at the moment.”

“But everyone’s doing okay?” Jasper pressed, leaning his shoulder against the other side of the Perspex barrier in a casual slouch, arms crossed over his chest. “None of you are symptomatic of… whatever the hell this thing is?”

Steve shook his head, his smile a little more forced this time. “No, we’re fine. Peter’s the only one who’s sick.”

“And we’re still none the wiser as to what’s wrong with his lung?”

“Well, they took him to surgery about twenty minutes ago,” he answered, glancing back down the hallway towards the metal doors at the far end that separated the surgical bay from the rest of the infirmary. “So I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

A moment of grim silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint buzzing of the overhead UV lighting, before Jasper heaved a long, weary sigh and pushed himself away from the isolation screen. He adjusted his tie carefully and brushed invisible lint off his sleeves in a manner that was so very _Coulson_ that it brought another smile, unbidden, to Steve’s lips.

“I should get back to work,” the agent told him reluctantly. “Director Fury’s been getting a little twitchy these past few hours. He doesn’t like unanswered questions.”

“Good luck with that,” Steve sympathised, and took his hand away from the stack of food containers long enough to give the man a parting wave. “Thanks again for lunch.”

Jasper sketched a casual salute and began walking backwards down the short corridor, his smile warmer now. “Don’t mention it. Could you do me a small favour, though? Ask Phil to call me once Parker’s out of surgery?”

Steve dipped his head in a brisk nod, or as much of a nod as he could manage with a stack of styrofoam balanced under his chin.

“You got it.”

“Obliged!” With a final wave, Jasper took a right turn at the end of the connecting hallway and disappeared out of sight.

Turning away from the transparent screen, Steve set off down the corridor and back towards the larger medical bay adjacent to Peter’s isolation room that the rest of the team would be using as their makeshift living quarters until they were allowed out of quarantine. The staff had clearly tried to make it as homely as possible – they’d gutted the room of all non-essential medical equipment (although Steve suspected that Tony’s propensity to dismantle things when he was bored had played a large part in that decision) and pushed all the beds against the walls so that they had more space to roam free. If it weren’t for the medics in hazmat suits who came in to check his vitals every thirty minutes, Steve could almost pretend he wasn’t being quarantined at all.

Not much had changed since he’d left to meet Jasper five minutes ago. Thor was still pacing back and forth on one side of the room, swinging Mjolnir to and fro while he walked, wearing an uncharacteristically sombre expression as he contemplated the floor resolutely. Every now and then, the overhead lights would flicker when the Asgardian’s frustration and/or anxiety level ratcheted up a notch too high, and Thor would pause in his pacing, take a calming breath, flex his grip on Mjolnir and then start the whole process all over again.

Tony, in contrast, was an immovable ball of tension on the opposite side of the room, having pushed his own bed up into the corner so that he could sit with his back pressed against the wall and his legs tucked up, his face lit by the glow of his Starkpad as he frowned down at the screen, chewing on the end of a stylus, a second pen tucked behind his ear. His hair was standing on end again, suggesting that he’d been raking his fingers through it as he was wont to do when he was brainstorming ideas. At the far end of the bed lay the abandoned remains of what looked like a blood pressure machine, wires and circuitry left scattered in disarray on the white linen.

“Jasper brought us lunch,” Steve announced to the room at large, hoping to draw both men out of their own thoughts. “He figured we might appreciate some real food.”

Although Tony’s eyes remained firmly glued to his Starkpad, Thor’s head came up, his expression brightening considerably as he spotted the cafeteria boxes.

“ ‘Tis indeed a kindness most profound,” the Asgardian spoke, setting down Mjolnir with a resounding _clunk_ and crossing the room to join him at the makeshift duct-taped table that they had relocated from Peter’s room after the paper airplane battle earlier that day. “You ought to have invited the good warrior to join us.”

“We’re still in quarantine for the time being,” Steve reminded him, carefully setting down his burdens and un-stacking the containers. Jasper had apparently gone as far as to order their favourites and label the boxes accordingly. Steve definitely owed him a couple of cold beers (he’d been relieved to discover in the months since his re-awakening that this was something people in the 21st century still did – thank God).

Thor opened the two boxes that sported his name across the lid in uneven block-capitals, grinning when the contents apparently met with his approval. Steve couldn’t put a name to either dish, other than to wager that they resembled something along the lines of _meat_ and _carbs_ and _gravy_ , but Thor was well-known and well-loved by the cafeteria staff, so it wouldn’t really surprise him if they had a separate menu prepared just to suit the Asgardian’s unique eating habits.

“Tony,” Steve called, glancing over to his corner of the room. “You gonna grab something to eat?”

“Mm,” the mechanic acknowledged distractedly, the sound muffled around the stylus he was now holding between his teeth so that he could jab at the Starkpad with his index finger instead.

Steve sighed quietly to himself, observing the other man for a moment longer before taking a seat opposite Thor and making a start on his own meal. The family-sized portion of pasta and accompanying side-serving of garlic bread certainly helped to quell the hunger pangs that had begun to make themselves known, but it did little to ease the hollow, cold, gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach where concern and anxiety still churned and festered. Although to be fair, he’d known from the offset that nothing short of Peter’s miraculous full recovery was going to fully ease that particular symptom.

Closing his own empty cartons, he crossed to the waste disposal unit built into the wall, watching Tony out of the corner of his eye as he tossed the containers away. The mechanic still hadn’t moved from his hunched position against the wall, the beginnings of a frown creasing the man’s brow as he studied the screen of his Starkpad. He certainly gave no indication that he intended to stop and eat something anytime soon.

Acknowledging the possibility that Tony might be having one of _those_ days (where anything and everything that wasn’t related to his latest project became irrelevant, including his own bodily needs), Steve grabbed one of the remaining containers and took it over to Tony’s corner of the bay. Pausing at the bedside and leaning down, he brushed a few stray screws aside so that he could take a seat beside the mechanic with his back pressed against the wall, their shoulders a hairsbreadth apart.

“Here.” Steve offered him the box. “Smells like corndog and chilli to me. The canteen staff must be feeling sorry for us.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

When Tony made no move to take it from him, he shifted the container an inch or two closer so that it blocked Tony’s view of the Starkpad screen. With a disgruntled noise of protest, Tony held the pad out to one side and turned his head to continue working.

“Tony,” Steve sighed, lowering the box to rest in his own lap. “Come on, you need to eat something. The only thing that’s passed your lips since we got here is _coffee_.”

“I’m fine, I’ll eat later,” came the automatic reply, and if Steve wasn’t already used to dealing with this at least every other day he might have backed down and left him to it. Thankfully, his immunity wasn’t limited to microorganisms; he’d built up a pretty solid resistance when it came to Tony’s vicious cycle of self-denial, too.

It wasn’t that the mechanic had a problem when it came to eating (Steve had seen him wolf down three cheeseburgers in one sitting after a particularly close shave in the field), it was more the fact that he tended to forget about the existence of food when he became too involved in a brainstorming session. There had been a few occurrences, way back at the beginning when Steve and the rest of the team had first moved into the Tower, where they’d assumed Tony had gone away somewhere on business because nobody had seen hide nor hair of him for days at a time. Bruce had been the one to clue them into reality – that Tony had a habit of holing himself away in his workshop to finish a project and tended to lose track of time.

It hadn’t taken them long to realise that this was going to be a regular thing.

Dragging the man forcefully from his work to eat or sleep had proven to be entirely ineffective, generally resulting in heated arguments and structural damage to the Tower, so instead Steve had made a compromise; he wouldn’t force Tony to leave his lab, but in return the engineer wasn’t allowed to live off coffee and dextrose tablets for days on end. The super-soldier had quickly cottoned onto the fact that a plate of food, if left conveniently close to Tony’s workstation, would inevitably be cleared within thirty minutes of Steve putting it there. The team had subsequently fashioned an unofficial timetable, of sorts, to ensure that somebody would always be there to drop off a plate of food at least three times a day if both Steve and Bruce weren’t able to do so themselves. Given that Tony hadn’t died of starvation yet, this was unanimously accepted as a successful plan.

“What are you designing?” he asked, opening the styrofoam container and spearing the little plastic fork into the mound of chilli.

Tony tilted the pad a little so that Steve could see the screen, taking the stylus from between his teeth to answer, “A get-well present for Peter.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re building him a skate park?”

“A skate _floor_ ,” Tony corrected, tilting the pad back towards himself so that he could continue sketching the blueprints. “Level twenty-three is really only used for excess storage, and the height of the ceiling makes it perfect for a couple of u-curve ramps. The kid could use a place of his own. You’ve got your art studio, Tasha’s got that yoga-zen room thing she shares with Bruce, Agent’s got his super-tech command centre, Clint’s got a whole fucking _archery range_ with moving targets shaped like Fox News reporters, and the Tower’s got my name on it. And besides,” the line between his brows reappeared, “the kid needs something to look forward to.”

Steve knew he was smiling somewhat stupidly, but it took an alarming amount of effort on his part to wipe the expression from his face. He bumped his shoulder against Tony’s companionably.

“I think it’s a swell idea. He won’t have to worry about keeping his abilities under wraps, either; I’ve noticed he hardly ever skates any more, after that incident with the school bus.”

Tony winced at the shared memory. “Yeah. Can’t blame the kid.”

Studying the sketches keenly over Tony’s shoulder, Steve probed, “You put any thought into design and colour schemes yet?”

“No,” Tony replied slowly, elongating both letters, the matter clearly having only just occurred to him.

Seeing his chance, Steve nudged him again with his shoulder, offering the engineer an easy smile. “Mind if I take a look? Lord knows I could do with something to kill the time. Here, I’ll swap you.”

And if Tony had any suspicions about Steve’s ulterior motives, he kept it to himself, passing the pad and stylus over wordlessly and accepting the styrofoam container with another soft hum of thanks. Steve kept his gaze resolutely on the screen of the pad as he slowly sifted through the bar of options until he found the appropriate app. There had been a time when Starkpads had confused the hell out of him, but Tony had been a surprisingly patient teacher, running him through all the systems and functions and actually printing off an instruction manual from the internet so that he wouldn’t have to go looking for his own answers. They’d designed things together before, too; Tony sketching the mainframe and handling the tech side of things while Steve added a tasteful artistic flare to make it aesthetically pleasing. Given that Stark Industries’ latest motorbike model was this year’s best-seller in that category, their occasional collaborative projects were apparently worth all the blood, sweat and tears.

By the time he’d designed a basic cover print (in three coloured options), he was relieved to see that Tony had finished his meal and was watching his work avidly. Steve felt his cheeks heat a little at the close scrutiny.

“It’s just a rough plan,” he said, by way of an excuse, handing the pad back to the engineer. “I could sketch up a few more options, if you don’t think these’ll work.”

“No, these…” Tony ran his eyes over the options, zooming in and out with practiced sweeps of his finger and thumb to get the full effect. “These are great. Really.” He flashed Steve a brief, charming smile. “Thanks.”

Steve was helpless to stop the fierce wave of longing that swept through him, leaving only despondent acceptance in its wake. _Can’t always have what you want, soldier. You’re friends; it’s enough._

It wasn’t, but Steve didn’t let that show when he returned the smile. “Don’t mention it.”

“Of course, there aren’t _nearly_ enough cartoon spiders-”

“ _No_ , Tony.”

 

**o~O~o**

 

 

Bruce was far from squeamish, a consequence of coming from a scientific background; between Betty’s various genetic manipulation experiments and Bruce’s own work with gamma rays and its varying adverse effects, he’d seen enough to give him a pretty strong stomach. They’d even blown up a frog once (unintentionally), in the early stages of their joint gamma research. His work as a doctor, too, had brought him up close and personal with things that would put you off eating meat for life; there was a reason Bruce had mostly remained a vegetarian during his travels, and it hadn’t always been down to a lack of financial stability.

But even he was feeling ill at ease watching Peter’s bronchoscopy from behind the tinted glass screen of the observation room. He could feel the sweat clinging to the small of his back and around his collarbone, the air cooling it every time he shifted in his seat and his loose scrubs flapped with the motion. His skin felt stretched, too tight against his bones as he flexed his hands, eyes still trained on the video feed transmitting from the endoscopic camera the surgeons had begun to slowly feed down Peter’s trachea. He didn’t have a pen to hand, nothing to occupy his fidgeting fingers with except his glasses, so he’d been polishing them frequently on the hem of his scrub shirt for the past fifteen minutes, knowing full well that the other occupants of the room would notice his unease, but finding no other alternative presenting itself.

He was grateful when Clint moved closer to perch on the edge of the table behind his chair, the archer’s knee pressing ever so lightly against Bruce’s shoulder. Just that single point of contact immediately made the room feel less claustrophobic, the tightness in his hands easing, and he took a steadying breath, finding the air cooler and less stuffy than before.

“We’re heading into the left lung now,” the respiratory specialist spoke over the open comm. line, his voice sounding a little tinny through the speakers built into the ceiling. “The upper respiratory tract looks unaffected. Slight swelling to the larynx, but his persistent coughing is likely to be the root cause of that. Airway remains patent.”

Clint’s knee nudged him gently, and the archer must have bent forwards because when he spoke the words were a tickling puff of warmth against Bruce’s ear. “That’s all good, right?”

Bruce dipped his head in answer, his attention still focused on the video feed as the camera passed a couple of inches deeper.

“I didn’t realise it’d be so… _dark_ ,” the archer continued, and Bruce heard Phil heave a quiet sigh of fond exasperation. In fairness, Clint _had_ maintained this level of chatter for the past fifteen minutes, and was showing no signs of stopping.

“It’d be darker if the camera didn’t have a torch,” Natasha pointed out dryly from the seat in the corner of the room. In addition to carrying her normal arsenal of weaponry (or so Bruce presumed, because the vast majority of it was usually hidden on her person), the Russian agent had an array of items laid out on the bench beside her, ranging from specimen tanks to electromagnetic stun guns. SHIELD was apparently taking no chances.

“ _What_ is _that_?” Clint demanded sharply, and Bruce’s attention snapped back to the screen so fast that his neck muscles twinged.

The camera had passed further down into Peter’s left lung, beyond the healthy tissue that lay at the top, and the video screen now revealed what the various scanning equipment had been unable to adequately visualise.

The glow of the camera’s light highlighted the beet-red of the lung wall, and even at first glance Bruce knew damaged tissue when he saw it. At least that explained the bloodstained sputum. More concerning, however, was how the red muscle wall gave way to a patchwork of white blotches which curled up in a spindly pattern like frost on a windowpane.

“Doctor Banner?” Phil prompted, his voice grave but calm.

“Some sort of microbial colonisation,” Bruce guessed, because in truth he was already several medical degrees out of his depth here. “Superficial, by the looks of it; I don’t think it penetrates the tissue beyond the epithelial layer.”

The camera passed further still, delving deeper into the cavity of the lung, and the tissue here was almost entirely hidden beneath a coating of white patches. It seemed to be thicker here, too, the thickness only increasing as the camera progressed further; the wispy, almost _fluffy_ strands caught against the lens as it passed down, sticking to the endoscopic tubing, and to itself, almost like cotton candy. Again, good thing he had a strong stomach.

“Judging by the approximate mass of the substance, I think it’s safe to assume that _this_ is what we’ve been picking up on the our scans,” one of the surgeons spoke, startling Bruce from his state of morbid fascination. “It appears to have encompassed almost two-thirds of his left lung capacity. At its current rate of growth, it won’t be long before his lung is fully compromised.”

“We’ll take a sample,” the respiratory specialist added, as a three-fingered pincer emerged in front of the camera on the video feed and took a good chunk of the fluffy, cotton-like substance. It came away easily enough from the wall of the lung, although the muscle tissue it left behind was beet-red and raw-looking. “It’s definitely microbial rather than a foreign body. From the initial presentation, I’d even be tempted to identify it as _fungal_ , although I’ve never known a case this severe. His blood-tox results didn’t indicate any microbial contaminant, so we have to assume his body’s managing to keep it isolated to his lung.”

There was a moment of silence while the occupants of the observation room watched the camera and its pincer attachment slowly begin to withdraw, retracing its path up through Peter’s lung and trachea. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, with the exception of Natasha (who, as in all things, appeared entirely unaffected), the moment the endoscopic probe was finally removed fully, a little more of the tension seeping from Bruce’s shoulders as Clint nudged him in the back again.

“Well,” the archer commented with easy cheer, “at least it’s not an _Alien_ chestbuster. Pete’ll be pleased.”

Bruce glanced back to shoot him a quiet smile, knowing that Clint’s tone belied his true relief that the mass in Peter’s lung hadn’t actually turned out to be a hostile alien visitor attempting to turn the teenager into its newest host. Well…at least not a _sentient_ one.

“Is it worth examining his right lung while you’re there?” Phil asked, and Bruce realised he must have tapped the control panel to open the communications channel because the question clearly wasn’t directed towards him. “If his left lung’s that badly affected, I assume there’s a chance it might have started colonising elsewhere?”

The surgeons glanced at each other.

“Yes and no, Agent Coulson,” one of them answered, and Bruce couldn’t for the life of him remember her name, only that she’d spent the better part of the medical briefing frowning at everybody. “Our scans haven’t identified any growth on his right side, and with his body’s unique chemistry, there’s a chance it’s managed to isolate the infection to one site. Rather than benefiting him, by passing another endoscopic tube we might end up _introducing_ the microorganism into his right lung.”

“That aside,” Dr Batterjee interjected, “I’m not happy to extend the procedure longer than strictly necessary. I’ve already had to give Mr Parker more anaesthesia than I’m entirely comfortable with just to keep him under. I think it’d be best if we wrapped this up as quickly as possible.”

Bruce had to acknowledge that the anaesthetist was doing a commendable job, considering the unusual nature of the sedation process. It had been a short twenty minutes since Peter had been given the initial bolus of the drug, but already he’d required several emergency top-ups when the vitals monitor began to show a sudden episode of tachycardia as the teenager’s body fought against the drug. The sheer volume of Diprivan that would need to be infused if things continued at this rate was a concern. The drug itself served its purpose well, but the by-product would take far longer to leave his system, and in large quantities it would doubtless have a detrimental impact on the teen’s wellbeing when he finally came round.

“He’s waking up.”

Bruce glanced back at Clint, feeling a frown begin to crease his brow at the tension he saw coiled in the other man’s stance.

“What?”

“Peter. He’s waking up.” Clint leaned over to slap his hand against the communications panel. “Doc, you might want to top him up again. His hand just twitched.”

The surgeons paused as one to study their unconscious patient, Dr Batterjee in particular turning quickly to look at the screen above the bed that detailed Peter’s vitals.

“His heart rate is still within normal parameters, Agent Barton,” the anaesthetist reassured him. “And I gave him another hefty dose only five minutes ago, give or take. He’ll be out for another ten minutes at least.”

Clint was standing now, and had moved closer to the tinted screen that separated them from the operating theatre. His shoulders were still tense, his gaze fixed resolutely on Peter’s prone form, and Bruce felt a flutter of unease stir in his stomach.

“We’ll run another deep-tissue scan, while he’s still sedated,” the respiratory specialist piped up, gesturing to one of the other surgeons to prep the machinery. “Double-check that the right lung is still healthy.”

“He just moved again,” Clint insisted, his voice firmer now, with an underlying note of urgency. “Same arm. He’s waking up.”

Batterjee turned towards the observation room and raised a calming hand. “His vitals are still settled, Agent. The Diprivan is still working its way through his system. What you saw was probably just a muscle twinge.”

Bruce had moved to stand behind the archer now. He trusted Clint’s eyes, and the man had a weird sort of sixth sense when it came to this sort of thing. Moreover, he’d just seen Peter’s foot twitch with his own eyes.

“Doctor,” he called, trepidation lacing his tone. “I think perhaps we ought to err on the side of caution this time and-”

“Don’t worry,” Dr Batterjee interrupted in that falsely cheerful drawl that was quickly starting to grate on Bruce’s fraying nerves. “I’ve got the situation under control, gentlemen.” He gave Peter’s cap-covered head a fatherly pat. “Your boy’s in good hands.”

Which was precisely the moment that the teenager’s left arm shot out and sent the anaesthetist flying several feet across the room to crash into a tray of instruments.

All hell broke loose shortly thereafter. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> My apologies, dear readers, for such a belated update. It's particularly hard in the winter season to find a moment alone when family, friends and work all demand every ounce of your free time so enthusiastically. Many thanks for your kind comments on the previous chapter, they were truly overwhelming in their praise of this story. I'm so thrilled you're all enjoying it!
> 
> And I have returned! At long last! And I'm hoping to get back to fortnightly updates at least, even if I can't manage weekly. I've missed writing! And the next chapter is well on its way to completion (plenty of Peter/Avengers protective instincts, because I have FEELS, okay?), so hopefully you won't have to wait too long.
> 
> My love to you all! <3


	8. Side-Effects

 

Later, much later, when the fear and pain and panic of it all was little more than a hazy memory, Peter would recall that waking up the first time wasn’t entirely dissimilar to swimming through treacle; a slow, desperate, messy struggle, with the ever-present looming threat of sinking back down into the dark sludge if he stopped trying even for a moment.

Presently, however, his intellectual capacity for such witty comparisons stood well below par. His thoughts were a jumbled, foggy haze of half-formed words, awareness lying tantalisingly close at hand and yet eternally beyond his reach. Sound was the first of his senses to return, a steady ‘ _whoosh-whoosh’_ in his ears. And above that, voices; garbled, distant, indecipherable. He could do little more than acknowledge their existence, his sluggish brain unable to make sense of any of it.

Unfortunately, physical sensation returned next, and with it the horrifying awareness that there was something large and unyielding lodged in his throat.

He could feel the first wave of sheer panic beginning to unfurl, coiling tight in his chest, but before the adrenaline could kick in a loud voice spoke from somewhere alarmingly close by, cutting through the muffled background noise.

_“…gentlemen…boy’s in good...”_

The sudden weight of a hand resting on his head was enough to snap his body from its temporary state of shocked inertia. With automatic reflexes kicking into overdrive, his arm shot out sharply, the flat of his hand striking something (or _someone_ ) hard enough to push them away, a low _“Oomph!”_ cutting through the sudden cacophony of noise around him. Electrical beeping, the sharp _hiss_ of pressurised gas, the crash and tinkle of metal hitting the floor, the thud of a body following suit – and above all, deafening in its intensity, the sudden clamouring of multiple panicked voices.

And he was _still_ choking.

His limbs suddenly regaining sensation, he raised both hands to his mouth, coughing around the _thing_ in his throat, grasping at it with clumsy, fumbling fingers and pulling as hard as he could. Something hit the back of his throat and he retched, stomach cramping as his muscles seized up, but the tube was _out_ and he could _breathe_ again, albeit through hacking coughs that burned his chest like the fires of hell had set up residence in there while he was unconscious.

A hand grabbed his wrist suddenly and he twisted it sharply to yank it out of their clutches, lashing out again in a blind panic. His frantic mind briefly registered a flash of pain in the crook of his elbow before the sudden, deafening clatter of falling objects drowned out all the other senses. Oh, God, it was _loud_. He clamped his hands over his ears, head pounding, only to yank them away again and shove _hard_ at the restraining force that tried to pin his shoulders back against the bed. There were hands on his ankles too and he reared his legs back, kicking and struggling against them....but fuck, he was tired, he was already so tired. What had they _given_ him?

Words came in snippets from amid the overwhelming din of noise, pulsing in time to the sharp throbbing of his head, the rapid thumping of his heart.

_“Don’t just….to hold him down…sedated...”_

_“-need you to calm down, Mr Parker! It’s…”_

_“-going to hurt himself if we don’t…”_

_“-give him another twenty milligrams, we need to…”_

No. _No_. Whoever they were – AIM, Hydra, _bad guys_ – they were about to drug him again, and he wasn’t just going to lie there and take it, not without a damn good fight. There were hands on his shoulders again and he lashed out with his fist forcefully, giving a hoarse cry of frustration when his uncoordinated arm only hit air. His Spidey senses were going crazy, the back of his neck tingling to a point where it was almost painful, telling him to get away, to _run_ , to flee while he was still conscious enough to do so.

_“Agent Barton, stay back! You can’t be in here, this is an isola- Uhn!”_

Peter froze, both at the name and the sudden _thunk_ of a fist colliding with a target. He stopped struggling, instead trying to pry his dry, scratchy eyelids open and squint through the too-bright light of the strange room, fighting to push himself up onto his elbows. Then a pair of hands were on him again, but there was a new voice speaking now, a voice wonderfully familiar.

“Peter, calm down,” Clint said quietly, firmly, and through his blurry vision the teenager could make out the archer’s face above him, blocking out the worst of the harsh lighting. Clint’s hands moved up to his shoulders, pushing him back down again carefully. “It’s okay; you’re safe. I’ve got your back.”

The relief that hit him was overwhelming in its intensity, and for a moment all that he could do was sink back against the bed, weak limbs trembling from exertion. He was still confused, and in pain, and exhausted, and _terrified_ , but at least Clint was here too. He wasn’t alone. He had back-up.

“Wha-?” his voice cracked on the word and he swallowed, his throat raw and dry, his tongue feeling too large for his mouth. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

There was a sudden, sharp sting in his arm and he yanked it away from the second pair of hands quickly, but not before a cold numbness started spreading up the limb. Above him, Clint’s head snapped to the side, his face thunderous.

“Damn it, Shepherd! What the hell did you just give him?”

“It’s only a mild sedative,” another voice answered tersely. “He just took down three members of my surgical team, Agent; I’m not taking any chances.”

The tingling at the back of his neck had grown worse again, rolling in waves that sent a cold thrill of panic through him, his blood pulsing in his ears and his breath coming out in short, sharp wheezes. Clint’s gaze shifted back to him, his hands moving again so that one rested on the side of Peter’s neck while the other held his shoulder down gently.

“I’m sorry,” the archer murmured, even as his face started to go hazy around the edges and Peter’s eyelids grew suddenly heavier. “I’m sorry, buddy, it looks like you’re gonna have to go back to sleep for a little while. I’ll get rid of these assholes while you’re out. Deal?”

Peter wanted to reply, but everything had gone all muffled and _slow_ again, and suddenly he was exhausted. He knew he was sinking back down into that thick, hazy sludge, and he didn’t want to go back, he didn’t _want_ to, but he was also entirely powerless to hold himself above the darkness that was rushing up to meet him.

Surrendering to it was far easier. So that’s what he did.

 

o~O~o

 

  
Steve was on his feet the moment Clint stepped through the door, Tony tossing his Starkpad onto the bed and rising quickly alongside him as Thor finally halted in his endless pacing, Mjolnir paused mid-swing.

“Ah, my friend!” the Asgardian greeted jovially, crossing the room in a few lengthy strides. “Long have we awaited your return.”

“How’d it go?” Steve urged, studying the archer’s face keenly and trying to gage the severity of the situation based on the expression he found there. “Is Peter alright?”

Instead of answering outright, Clint scrubbed a hand over his hair and let out a short, sharp sigh. Steve immediately felt his muscles begin to tense, dread coiling tight in the pit of his stomach. Beside him, Tony had gone still, and the overhead lights began blinking on and off as Thor’s concern made itself apparent once again, the Asgardian taking a deep, steadying breath in an obvious attempt to clamp down on his energy discharge. Clint eyed the warrior carefully, waiting until the lights had stopped flickering before replying.

“Well,” the archer spoke at last, with notably _forced_ cheer, “he punched three of his surgeons halfway across the operating room and broke a few thousand dollars’ worth of medical equipment, but I guess that was better than the _Alien_ chestbuster scenario I’d been waiting for. Oh, and the stuff in his lungs isn’t sentient. We think. Unless you can get sentient cotton candy.” He glanced towards Tony. “That’s not a thing, right?”

Steve’s brow had creased in concern, worry gnawing at his insides. “He attacked his surgeons?” That didn’t sound like the Peter he knew at all. “How? I thought the procedure was supposed to be under general anaesthetic?”

“He woke up too early,” Clint elaborated. “Found himself in a weird room with a tube stuck down his throat, surrounded by big dudes in hazmat suits.” The archer gave an easy shrug. “He did what any one of us would’ve done. He lashed out, the docs didn’t know what the hell to do about it, and everything went to shit.”

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair again. “At least they managed to get a sample of the stuff growing in his lung. That’s one step closer to finding an answer. And a cure.”

“Is he awake?” Tony demanded, already inching towards the door. “Can we see him?”

Clint shook his head. “One of those idiots stuck him with a hypodermic. He’ll be out for a little while yet. Worse still, apparently the sedative they gave him was supposed to be their last line of defence if he went all alien-possessed on them during the op. – unlikely, but always a possibility. It’s effective, but it’s also gonna make the kid feel like shit. According to Bruce, Peter’s body chemistry won’t react well to it. He doesn’t know who authorised them to use the drug, but my money’s on Shepherd.”

Tony threw his hands in the air. “Who the fuck hires these people? Seriously?” Frowning, he added, “And why the hell didn’t they just give him another dose of anaesthetic? At least we know that stuff’s mostly harmless.”

“Kid ripped out all his IV ports trying to fight them off,” Clint replied, sounding resigned. “The morons decided that pinning him down by force was the best way to deal with his panic attack.”

One of the overhead lights sparked and went out. Thor, his face as thunderous as his reputation might suggest, flexed his grip on the handle of Mjolnir as he gestured towards the door with his other hand.

“We trusted these fools with our comrade’s safety,” he fumed, posture tensing as though readying himself for a fight (with Thor, it was never wise to exclude this as a possibility, given that he’d been raised in a culture of warriors). “And by the stars of Isril, I will see them answer for the pains they have caused him.”

Steve raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Thor. Put the hammer down, pal. It won’t help Peter if this whole section loses power.”

The Asgardian glanced towards him, then down at Mjolnir, a frown still creasing his brow. But he obligingly bent down to set the weapon on the floor with a resounding _clunk_ , clenching his empty fist as he stood, his expression dark but with an underlying pinch of guilt around his eyes.

“My apologies, Captain.”

“If it makes you feel any better, big guy,” Clint spoke, flexing the fingers of one hand carefully, the knuckles noticeably reddened, “I punched the surgeon that Peter missed.”

“Clint,” Steve began, disapprovingly, although there was no real heat to it.

“The idiot planted himself between me and Pete, Cap.” The archer’s expression had hardened a little, although it was clear his anger wasn’t directed towards anyone currently in the room. “I didn’t have time for civilised negotiations. Besides,” he flexed his hand again and shook it out, “his suit took the worst of the hit.”

“Give me ten minutes with all four of ‘em and my best lawyer,” Tony muttered darkly. “Their careers’ll be circling the drain by the time we’re done.”

Steve wasn’t quite sure how to reply to that. As designated team leader, he probably ought to disapprove of his team using their financial or professional leverage to enact personal vendettas against SHIELD’s top surgeons, but on the other hand, he was feeling more than a little vexed over what sounded to him like a pretty piss-poor performance in the operating theatre. He was saved the effort of formulating an appropriately responsible argument, however, when the emergency alarm began to sound, high-pitched and blaring.

“Shit,” Clint hissed, and abruptly left the room at a sprint.  

Steve hesitated only the barest fraction of a second before following the archer down the corridor, his heart in his throat as he skidded to a stop in the doorway to Peter’s isolation room, taking in the scene at a glance. Dr Miller was sprawled across the overturned crash-cart on one side of Peter’s bed, and Bruce was struggling to his feet on the other, while the teenager himself seemed to be fighting against the oxygen tubing, the blanket and his own uncoordinated limbs in his desperation to get down from the bed. Steve darted around Clint to get to Peter while the archer bent down to help Bruce up off the floor, ducking the teen’s poorly-aimed fist when the kid immediately lashed out with his nearest arm.

“Peter,” he called, loud enough to be heard above the wailing of the emergency siren, neatly catching the flailing arm by the wrist and restraining it gently but firmly against Peter’s chest, using his other hand to push the teenager back down onto the bed. “Peter, stop it, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

The younger man froze mid-protest, chest heaving in shallow, wheezy-sounding breaths as he blinked up at Steve in obvious confusion and alarm, his eyes wide and frightened and his face as pale as the sheets beneath him.

“Cap?”

Smiling at the hoarse croak, relieved by even that small flicker of recognition, Steve moved his hand from the kid’s shoulder to smooth his sweaty hair back from his too-warm forehead. The wailing alarm in the background was finally silenced, leaving his ears ringing in its wake.

“Hey, champ,” he murmured, releasing his hold on the teenager’s wrist and gently tugging the oxygen mask back down over his nose and mouth as Peter’s body calmed beneath him. “It’s alright, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

The teenager’s wild eyes flickered from Steve’s face to his surroundings, his breathing still fast and erratic. “Where am I?” he rasped, the fear evident in his voice. “Cap? What is this place?”

“You’re on the helicarrier,” Steve disclosed calmly. “You just had an operation. I know you’re probably feeling pretty lousy right now, but don’t worry about it; it’s just the drugs the doctors gave you.”

Peter shook his head emphatically, eyelids drooping closed for a split second before snapping open again, his gaze unfocused.

“No. No-no-no-no...Cap, don’t let ‘em...” His hand fumbled to reach for Steve, clumsy fingers curling into the fabric of his shirtfront. “Tell...tell the doctors not to...” He shook his head again, rasping in a wheezy breath. “No drugs. They’ll make me sick.”

“Alright,” Steve agreed softly, covering the hand with his own and gently prying it loose, settling Peter’s arm back down on the mattress. “I’ll tell them. No more drugs.”

“No more drugs,” the teen echoed, although less articulately. “Not...not even little ones.”

“Okay.” Steve’s smile, this time, felt less forced. “Got it. No drugs.”

The younger man gave another groggy blink, but when he opened his eyes again he managed to meet Steve’s gaze head-on. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

His assurances seemed to be working, the tension visibly seeping out of Peter’s limbs, although the teenager trembled beneath him now as though he was cold. Steve reached for the discarded blanket, intending to tug it up to cover him, but Tony’s hand beat him to it. The mechanic had slipped around to the other side of Peter’s bed, drawing his attention with a light tap to the teen’s foot, a cheerful smile replacing Tony’s previous frown when the youth’s gaze flickered across to look at him.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, pulling the blanket up to Peter’s shoulders before leaning his hip against the side of the bed, his hand resting on the teen’s arm. “Sounds like you’ve had a rough time of it. How’re you feeling?”

Peter glanced from Tony’s face to Steve’s in groggy suspicion. “You’re actin’ weird,” he accused, his voice catching on the last word, prompting a wet, gurgling cough. He froze, a pained grimace slowly forming. “Wait. Did I get shot?”

“Not this time, Pete,” Clint answered blithely from where he stood supporting a winded-looking Bruce, one hand on the back of the Bruce’s neck while he took deep, even breaths. Upon closer inspection, the doctor’s skin was looking a little green-tinged, perspiration beading along his brow.

Steve took a hasty step towards the pair. “Bruce? You alright?”

The scientist waved away his concern, flashing him a tight-lipped smile. “I got this, just gimme a minute.” He took another deep, steadying breath, clenching and unclenching both fists slowly. “The punch to the gut came as a bit of an unexpected surprise, that’s all. The Other Guy doesn’t like surprises, especially painful ones.”

Nodding, satisfied that Bruce could handle the situation himself and that Clint would inform him if that was suddenly no longer the case, Steve turned back towards Peter in time to see the kid raise a shaky, clumsy hand and gingerly rub at his sternum.

“Are you _sure_ I didn’t get shot?” the teen croaked, the words a little slurred through fatigue as he blinked heavily.

“Pretty sure. Why?” Tony leaned over him a little, the frown lines reappearing in his brow. “Your chest bothering you?”

Peter closed his eyes again, but it was with a pinched sort of look this time. “Yeah. Kinda hurts to breathe.”

Tony glanced back over his shoulder, trepidation in his expression. “Doc?”

With Thor’s assistance, Dr Miller had managed to stumble to his feet and push the crash-cart back onto its wheels. There was a splintered-looking crack in the bottom right-hand corner of his transparent helmet, but the seal still looked intact, and he seemed to be otherwise unharmed. The young medic moved over to the end of the bed, touching Peter’s ankle lightly with one hand to alert him to his presence (Steve was relieved to see that there was at least _one_ doctor under SHIELD’s employment who possessed a smidgen of common sense) and wiggling his gloved fingers in a wave when the teenager glanced his way.

“The surgeons took a sample of your lung tissue, Peter,” he explained carefully. “I’m afraid it’s probably going to hurt for a couple of hours before your body starts the healing process.”

Peter’s pinched look didn’t fade, although his eyes were at half-mast now. “Oh. That sucks.” He gave another full-body shiver, his breath coming out in a shaky huff. “Why’s it so cold?”

Steve tugged the blanket up a little higher until it sat just beneath the youth’s chin, then settled a hand on Peter’s sweaty brow.

“It’s just your fever playing tricks on you,” he murmured, feeling the heat radiating back against the skin of his palm. He passed the hand over Peter’s hair instead, smoothing down the sweat-damp spikes. The teenager’s eyelids drooped closed at the touch, before snapping open again with obvious effort. Steve felt another smile curl at his lips. “Get some sleep, son. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Peter made a faint, croaky _‘hm’_ sound, but he’d already relaxed beneath Steve’s ministrations, his pinched expression smoothing over. He was asleep again in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s hope you’re right, Captain,” Dr Miller commented quietly, surveying the bio-readings on the monitor above Peter’s bed.

Steve glanced back at him questioningly. “About what?”

“About Peter feeling better when he wakes up,” Bruce elaborated, looking decidedly more composed and less _green_ than he had been a few minutes ago. He cleaned the frames of his glasses on the hem of his scrubs shirt, eyeing Peter’s sleeping form with a crease between his brows. “That initial burst of panic and confusion he had just then? That was his body being flooded with adrenaline in a fight-or-flight response to the chemicals in his system. Given that they haven’t reached their peak yet, there’s a chance things might get _worse_ the next time he wakes up.”

“Shit,” Clint muttered, and pulled out his cell phone, presumably to appraise Coulson of the developing situation.

“Worse?” Tony echoed, his voice flat to hide the worry that Steve could see written in his features. “What’s ‘worse’?”

 “We knew there’d be side-effects to the chemical breakdown of the anaesthetic in his bloodstream,” Bruce reasoned, donning his glasses again and crossing his arms over his chest. “But now there’s a sedative pumping around in his body, and from the immunology screening tests the geneticists ran six months ago, his cells are going to perceive it as being toxic. There’s really no way to predict how that’s going to wreak havoc with his system.”

That churning ball of dread in Steve’s stomach had begun to make itself known again. He glanced back down at the sleeping teenager, his hand still resting lightly in Peter’s hair.

“How long will it take before the drugs completely wear off?”

“Best case scenario?” Miller spoke, although he didn’t sound particularly confident that this would be the case. “A couple of hours. His metabolism works even faster than yours, Captain, and his antibodies might just see the sedative as another foreign virus and break it down like it would most antigens.”

“And worst case?” Clint asked, ever the realistic member of the team.

The medic exhaled a grim sigh, which sound like a hiss through the speakers of his hazmat suit. “We have to consider the possibility that the sheer volume of anaesthetic his body’s had to deal with, coupled with the infection he’s already fighting, might have compromised that breakdown system. If that’s the case, given the likelihood of blood toxicity due to the sedative, it could take him a couple of days to recover from the side-effects.”

A beat of grim silence followed this announcement, Steve’s chest feeling tight with worry and fear and _anger_ over the situation. Unlike many of his teammates, the soldier endeavoured to maintain good relations with SHIELD’s medical staff, even if they often _were_ intrusive and overbearing and lacked the bedside manner that Steve had been accustomed to back in the 40s. (Having expressed this concern to Agent Hill, he’d been informed that it wasn’t a cultural or professional change of the 21 st century, but rather a SHIELD-specific problem that they had learned to accept. Apparently the ‘nice’ medics hadn’t made the cut when faced with extraterrestrial patients and the constant, overhanging threat of being blown up at any given moment by hostile forces, and what the current medical staff lacked in warmth and compassion, they made up for in integrity and sheer strength of will.) But he found himself growing increasingly more vexed by Peter’s apparent mistreatment in the operating room. Not only had the surgeons given the teenager a drug that was _known_ to be harmful, they’d also potentially compromised his ability to fight off the existing infection in his lungs by doing so. And that? That _pissed him off_.

“Clint, my friend,” Thor spoke, the low rumble of his voice betraying his own anger. “The healer you struck? I do not think you hit him hard enough.”

Dr Miller took a subtle step to the side, eyeing the archer worriedly. “You decked one of the surgeons?”

“It was warranted,” Bruce defended calmly before Clint could even open his mouth. The scientist reached out to pat Miller on the shoulder. “Word of advice? Don’t step in front of Clint when he’s angry.”

The medic glanced Clint again, the archer giving him smile that was all teeth by way of response, and Steve saw Miller’s his throat move as he swallowed. “Noted. Thank you.”

Tony had moved to lean against the nearby wall, turning his phone over in his hands for a lack of anything better to do with them (it was a habit that Steve knew all too well). “So what happens now?” the mechanic asked. “We just sit here and wait for the fireworks to start?”

Thor frowned at him from the foot of Peter’s bed, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “What reason have we to celebrate, when our comrade still lies in fever’s grasp?”

“No, buddy, it’s a phrase, I didn’t literally me-...Never mind.” Tony waved away the comment, his gaze flitting between Bruce and the young medic. “What can we do to help Peter?”

Bruce shrugged again, looking weary. “At the moment, nothing. Except be here to help calm him down when he wakes up.”

“I need to re-site his cannula,” Miller added, glancing between the assembled team members. “If it’s not too much to ask, I’d appreciate a couple of your being here to hold his arm for me. Last thing he needs is to wake up alone and see a stranger sticking another needle into him.”

“I will assist you in this task, good healer,” Thor offered, clapping the younger man on the shoulder with enough force to send him stumbling a step forwards.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tony announced, sitting down on a steel table in the corner of the room as though to prove it. “And I’ve been reliably informed that I need adult supervision, so Steve can’t go anywhere either – no offence, Thor.”

The Asgardian flashed him an easy smile. “None taken.”

“I’ll go see what help I can be in the labs,” Bruce spoke. “The sooner we work out what this infection is, the sooner we can start treating him for it.”

Steve nodded, relieved that there would be someone he trusted working alongside the SHIELD scientists – he didn’t like to think of himself as an overly suspicious sort of person, but the events of the afternoon had somewhat shaken his faith in SHIELD’s professional integrity – before glancing over at Clint, who’d finished tapping away on his cell phone and now stood lounging against a row of cabinets on the opposite side of the room. The archer caught his gaze and gave a small, dark smile.

“Think I’ll go check on Tasha’s progress, see if she needs a hand.”

Tony perked up instantly. “A hand doing what? What are you to up to?”

“Aye, where _is_ our good Lady Widow?” Thor asked, glancing around as if noticing for the first time that a member of their team was missing.

Clint’s smile widened into a grin. “She and Coulson were planning on having a little pep-talk with the surgical team.”

“Oooh.” Tony now wore a grin to match the archer’s, leaning forwards in his seat. “If there’s blood, take pictures for me, ‘kay?”

Steve sighed softly, shaking his head, but didn’t bother voicing his protest. Some arguments, he’d discovered from ample previous experience in dealing with his stubborn-willed teammates, were doomed to fail from the offset.

 

 

o~O~o

 

  
  


Nick Fury took one look at him and promptly swore.

“Your mother would be appalled,” Phil intoned, dropping wearily into the padded leather office chair in front of the vid-screen.

“You look like shit, Coulson,” the director informed him bluntly. “And I only bother telling you because it’s such a rare occurrence that I know somebody must’ve fucked up big. What happened? Where the hell is your _tie_?”

Phil gave an easy shrug. “Natasha ran out of handcuffs.”

“Shit.” Fury dragged a hand down his face, sighing heavily. “Am I correct in assuming that your change of dress code and Agent Romanov’s need for restraints has something to do with the resignation letters that simultaneously appeared in my inbox six minutes ago?”

“Hm.” Phil arched an eyebrow, suitably impressed by Natasha’s efficiency. Then again, she’d had adequate motivation to be _very_ thorough this time. “That was faster than I expected.”

“But you _did_ expect it,” Fury surmised flatly. “Which suggests you must’ve had a hand in it. Which also means that I’m probably going to approve of it, and whatever crazy-ass story goes with it is going to piss me off.” He eyed Phil curiously. “But first tell me, Agent; why did four of the best surgeons currently employed by SHIELD Medical just flush their careers down the drain?”

Phil brushed invisible lint off the sleeves of his suit jacket. “They made an error in judgement. A serious one. I’m all for second chances, Director, but when it comes to professionalism, or a lack thereof, I take things rather personally.”

Fury gave him a knowing look. “Is that the only reason you’re taking this _personally_ , Coulson?”

The agent glanced back towards the screen, his expression still bland but his tone hardening by a fraction. “Their mistake may have severely compromised Peter’s ability to fight the infection in his lung. They injected him with a drug that hadn’t been cleared by Dr Banner, a drug that they _knew_ would have severe metabolic consequences if they used it. That, to me, is completely unacceptable.”

Fury had pressed the tips of his middle and index fingers against the deepening crease between his eyes, his elbow braced on the edge of his desk. “I need a drink,” he lamented gruffly, then gave a harsh sigh and took a swig of coffee from his mug. “Alright, Coulson. Start at the beginning. But be concise – let’s not leave the poor bastards in Agent Romanov’s care longer that strictly necessary. I hear it’s bad for the nerves.”

“Is it? How unfortunate.”

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support! I'm still thrilled and amazed at the reception this story has received. And while I only intend for there to be another three chapters maximum, there'll all pack a punch, including the Big Reveal in chapter 9 when we finally discover exactly what's wrong with Peter. So stay tuned!
> 
> A huge thank you for those who commented or left kudos, I really appreciate every scrap of feedback, however short and concise or long and rambling. :D I'm hoping to have chapter 9 posted within a fortnight, work and family life permitting. And my one-shot about Bruce should be posted shortly after that. 
> 
> Until next time, take care! <3 xxx


	9. System Buffering

Thor had initially harboured a quiet hope that the consequences of the healers’ foolishness would not prove to be as dire as predicted. However, as the afternoon wore on, it quickly became apparent that Peter’s condition wasn’t going to improve in the near future.

The youth had awoken on a handful of occasions since his first eventful return to consciousness post-surgery, and still his initial reaction of panic, fear and confusion persisted. Jerking from sleep with what appeared to be a full-body spasm, he would immediately lash out at whomever was sitting closest to him, utterly convinced that he was being held captive and that his team were in fact his mortal enemies. Thor had taken to inserting himself between the nearest flailing limb and his more fragile comrades, content to bear a glancing blow (for indeed, even with Peter’s heightened strength and speed, the strike was no firmer than that of an Asgardian child) if it meant that Peter would not have to suffer the additional guilt of giving Tony or Clint a black eye.

The youth would gradually regain his senses, soothed by the calming words of their good Captain, but would retain little or no memory of his previous periods of lucidity, confused as to why his chest pained him so greatly, repeating the same questions time and time again without fail, his voice weakened and tremulous in a way that made them all wince. The lad would fall asleep again shortly thereafter, fatigue and pain forcing him back into a fitful slumber, and Thor would return to his standing vigil against the wall at the bedside, where he would remain until Peter jerked from sleep once more and the cycle would begin anew.

When the noble Healer Miller had been forced to re-insert Peter’s intravenous tube for the fourth time in as many hours, Thor and his comrades had come to the grim conclusion that using physical means to restrain Peter, while not desirable, was a more preferable option than letting him further damage his body. Healer Shepherd had bluntly suggested using the padded restraining cuffs that Thor himself had once been intimately acquainted with during his first eventful visit to Midgard following his banishment, and had therefore been suitably relieved when the man’s notion was immediately met with a resounding ‘no’ from all parties.

 _“I don’t give a fuck if it’s ‘standard procedure’_ ,” Clint had argued firmly, nose-to-nose with the senior healer in the corridor outside the isolation room whilst Thor stood at the archer’s shoulder, Mjolnir in hand, trying to appear as intimidating as possible.  _“We’re not tying him down. If your staff aren’t competent enough to deal with him when he’s having a panic attack, fine; we’ll handle it on our own”_

The imbecile had looked almost ready to argue the point (prompting Thor to truly question the man’s sanity – Hawkeye was a force to be reckoned with even on a good day, and recent events had undoubtedly angered the archer greatly), his jaw set and his greying moustache twitching from the pinched, trembling set of his lips as he glared at the Avenger from behind the protective screen of his helmet. Thankfully, fate had spared the fool from saying anything he would ultimately regret, for at that very moment a series of loud, forceful sneezes had broken through the tense silence, the eyes of every man turning to stare at the perpetrator.

Tony, a hand still poised over his nose as though anticipating a second onslaught, had stared back at them wide-eyed before dropping the appendage and clearing his throat.

_“I had an itch, guys. Relax.”_

His statement had failed to reassure the healers of his continuing good health, and the Man of Iron had soon found himself accosted by half a dozen medical personnel, all of whom had insisted that he remove himself to another isolation room for further testing.

 _“I’m not going anywhere_ ,” Tony had argued firmly, battling against the gloved hands that were attempting to usher him away from Peter’s bedside.  _“I feel fine, you’re all being ridiculous. It was only a_ sneeze _, for god’s sake.”_

As ever, ‘twas the good Captain who had finally managed to convince their affronted comrade that further testing would be beneficial. Tony had still appeared displeased at the prospect (Thor could not blame him for this), but had grudgingly accepted his fate once Steve offered to accompany him, and the two warriors had departed only after a solemn promise from both Thor and Clint that they would alert them immediately if anything of significance happened to Peter in their absence.

Which was how Thor found himself sitting with the youth tucked up against his side, one arm wrapped around the narrow set of shoulders and his hand lightly circling the lad’s upper arm, ready to immobilise the limb should Peter startle awake again. With artificial means of restraint thoroughly out of the question, this had been the most efficient alternative that they could think of. At the far end of the bed, Clint sat cross-legged beside Peter’s feet, his back braced against the footboard and his eyes trained on the sleeping youth, barely appearing to breathe or blink, so vigilant was he in his silent watch. He had an arm draped lightly over the lad’s ankles, ensuring ease of restraint should Peter wake up kicking as he had done previously.

Peter stirred in his sleep, humming a faint, distressed croak at the back of his throat, and both archer and Asgardian froze in their respective positions, preparing for the worst. It proved to be a false alarm, however, and after several minutes Thor felt his tensed muscles relax again, sharing a brief, grim smile with Clint when the Midgardian gave a quiet sigh of relief.

Thor could relate to the sentiment. He considered himself to be a hardened warrior – a man of great strength, a figure upon whom his teammates could rely during times of strife – but nothing served to cut him so deeply nor so quickly as the pain and distress of a close friend. Standing witness Peter’s suffering had left him with a hollow ache in his chest; a feeling of resigned helplessness that he had not experienced since Loki’s trial before the High Court back on Asgard many, many moons ago.

It didn’t help, of course, that the boy reminded him of his brother – or, to speak with precision, the Loki he remembered so fondly from his youth. The Loki who had always been quick to smile, so full of energy and spirit and mischief, with an insatiable hunger for knowledge that had him pouring over books and manuscripts rather than sparring in the practice halls with the other warriors-in-training. That being said, the young scholar had always willingly accompanied Thor off-world to explore other realms, where he had inevitably ended up saving both their hides when Thor’s brash, hot-headed nature put them in mortal peril. But that had been before Thor had turned Of Age; before Odin had begun to impress upon both of them the need to conform to the standards of Asgardian Princes; before Thor had allowed his kinship with Loki to fade into the shadows in favour of seeking out his father’s approval through increasingly grandiose (and utterly foolish) feats of bravery. ‘Twas little wonder that his brother had grown to despair over his ability to rule Asgard in their father’s stead – had he been granted such a position of power, Thor would have brought war down upon the nine realms in a matter of days.

His guilt over his brother’s imprisonment still ran deep. Loki was certainly not blameless, for his actions had brought great suffering to the people of Midgard, but nor could he be held solely accountable for his trespasses. He had been ill of mind when he’d fallen from the Bifrost and into the abyss, and who could say how long the darkness had held him there? How many countless days had passed before his first encounter with the Chitauri – or whomever had spawned the creatures into existence; before he’d found a way to escape to earth? Long enough for his grief and pain to fester, certainly. Long enough that madness had set in; for his brother’s eyes had been those of a stranger during their confrontation on the battlements of Stark Tower, his gaze pure malice, the bite of his voice a cold, bitter scorn and his sharp, twisted words cutting deep. Thor had found Loki alive that day, and yet his brother had been utterly lost to him.

“Hey.” Clint’s murmur startled Thor from his thoughts, the archer’s knee nudging his shin lightly. “Why the long face, big guy?”

Thor’s gaze flickered down from where he’d been staring despondently at the opposite wall. Clint’s expression was deceptively blank, but there was a slight, telling pinch to the corner of his eyes that bespoke his concern. Even so, Thor hesitated briefly in replying. Had it been any other member of the Avengers team (with perhaps the exception of Phil Coulson), Thor might have acknowledged his melancholy over Loki’s plight; Bruce in particular had been a near-constant source of comfort, listening to his admissions of fear and guilt with a quiet understanding that belied the raging beast he could become, and offering rational, helpful advice in return.  

But Clint Barton, although a dear friend, was not an individual in whom Thor could confide regarding matters that concerned Loki. Not through any fault of his own – for the archer was a warrior of strength and integrity, a man Thor trusted with his very life – but due to Clint’s own suffering at his brother’s hands (and his partner’s near-death experience), Loki was widely acknowledged as a taboo subject in the Avengers Tower when either agent was present. ‘Twas merely common courtesy not to reawaken such memories when Clint had only in recent months begun to sleep through the night without being plagued by dark dreams. Being a child of Asgard, Thor slept but a little compared to the children of earth, and his close kinship with Clint had been forged during the small hours of the morning when the archer had abandoned all pretence at sleeping to join him in the gaming chamber. And while he welcomed the man’s company, it had come as a relief when the archer’s twilight visits had gradually become less regular over the past year, until his appearances were truly a seldom occurrence. It was a testament to how well Clint was healing from his days of torment, and Thor would rather bite his tongue and suffer the guilt alone than reawaken such painful memories.

With that in mind, he buried the ache in his chest once again, setting all thoughts of Loki aside, and gave an answering one-shouldered shrug. His gaze dropped to Peter’s sleeping face, his arm tightening around the boy’s shoulders reflexively.

“My strength serves no purpose here,” he spoke, returning to the issue that had darkened his thoughts not too long ago, his voice hushed so as not to disturb the youth’s slumber. “Your mortal medicine lies beyond my ken, and despite Peter’s best efforts in tutoring me, the technology of this realm remains wholly unfamiliar. I dislike feeling so...useless.”

“Amen to that,” Clint agreed with a wry smile, patting his leg in consolation. “I’m no scientist either, man. But until they find a cure, we’re all as useless as each other. Being here? Keeping an eye on Peter? That’s the most any of us can do right now.”

Thor nodded, acknowledging the truth in the man’s words. “Aye. You speak wisely, my friend.”

“Of course I do.” The corner of Clint’s mouth twitched upwards. “Coulson gave me that same pep-talk less than an hour ago.” When Thor could not bring himself to return the smile, Clint gave his ankle another (decidedly less-gentle) thump. “Hey. I get it. I much prefer the battles I can fight with a weapon, too. Why d’you think Tasha was so quick to volunteer to supervise the medics? She doesn’t do the whole,” he gestured vaguely, “bedside vigil thing. Makes her twitchy. And that never ends well for anyone.”

Thor could not envision Lady Natasha being anything remotely resembling ‘twitchy’; the female agent always seemed to be in complete control of herself and her emotions in any given situation. But Clint knew her better than Thor did, better than perhaps any man, and the two warriors had ever been attuned to each other’s needs and concerns; he could not see reason to question the archer now.

Peter stirred against him, leaning further into his hold, and Thor glanced down in time to see the youth’s brow furrow in discomfort. Making a pained noise in the back of his throat, Peter tensed, legs jerking in an aborted attempt to pull them up and out from beneath Clint’s hold. But the archer’s reflexes had been instantaneous, and he already had the lad’s ankles in a firm but gentle grasp. Peter grunted quietly in protest, a broken noise of distress, and opened his eyes to a groggy squint to peer at his surroundings fractiously.

“Be at ease,” Thor spoke, his voice a low rumble, settling his free hand on Peter’s chest while the other kept the youth’s arm immobilised to prevent him from dislodging the tubing taped beneath the skin there. “All is well, Peter.”

With another noise of protest, Peter’s eyes slid closed again, his limbs straining against the hands that held him. Thor heard Clint hiss out a curse as the lad attempted to draw his legs up again, the force of it jerking the archer forward across the bed. To his credit, Clint’s grip on Peter’s ankles remained unbroken.

“Peter,” Clint called, using his weight to pin the lower limbs in place. “C’mon, kid, don’t fight us. You’re okay.”

The youth stilled, his muscles still coiled tight and ready for battle, but no longer attempting to unseat his comrades. Thor slowly loosened his grip on Peter’s arm. After a beat, a pair of bloodshot eyes flickered up to look at him, frightened but focused.

“Do not vex yourself, my young friend,” the Asgardian soothed, smiling down at the lad. “‘Tis alright. We have you safe.”

Peter’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his breathing shallower and more rapid than before, misting the oxygen mask that covered his nose and mouth. His gaze slid slowly away from Thor and he struggled to raise his head in order to peer down towards the foot of the bed. The last of the tension in the boy’s limbs seemed to dissipate when he saw who held his ankles so firmly, and he leaned back again with a shaky exhale, resting his head against Thor’s shoulder.

“How long have I been asleep?” he slurred, the words coming out thick and muffled.

“A few hours, off and on,” Clint answered, releasing the teenager’s ankles and climbing effortlessly over Peter’s legs to hop down from the bed. He gave Peter an easy smile as he dropped into the rolling stool at the bedside. “Sorry about the whole restraining thing, bud. The last couple of times you woke up, you were a little…violent.”

Peter’s eyes widened fractionally, his gaze darting between Clint and Thor as though seeking to confirm that the archer was not plying him with falsehoods. Thor’s smile was grim as he gave the youth’s chest a consoling pat.

“The healers’ tinctures had rendered you confused,” he explained. “You were under the impression that we were your captors.”

“Did…did I hurt anyone?” Peter demanded worriedly, his voice a hoarse croak.

“Nay, little one,” Thor reassured, his smile warm, and Clint moved to the nearby table to pour the lad a cup of water. “No damage was done.”

“Well, aside from the surgeons you decked,” Clint mentioned casually. Returning to the bedside, he angled the straw in the cup towards Peter’s lips as the teenager tugged his oxygen mask down from his face. “But the attack was entirely warranted, trust me. Plus it saved me the hassle of doing it myself. And besides, I’m pretty sure Tasha made them all crap their pants before she coerced them into handing in their resignations, so really, you throwing a few sloppy punches probably wasn’t that big of a deal in comparison.”

Draining half the cup in a few eager gulps, Peter let his head fall back again, resting against Thor as he tried to catch his breath. Apparently even the act of drinking had drained the lad’s already dwindling energy reserves.

“They pissed off Natasha?” Peter reiterated, his voice a little less hoarse now. “Shit. What did they do to earn that?”

Clint leaned his hip against the side of the mattress and gave a casual shrug, although Thor noted that hidden in his expression lay the same darkness that he usually reserved for their enemy during combat.

“Let’s just say they fucked up big-time, kid. ‘Sorry’ wasn’t going to cut it.”

Peter raised a hand towards the cup that Clint still held, clearly attempting to take it from him, but his appendage instead brushed clumsily against the archer’s arm. The youth frowned, withdrawing the hand slowly and flexing his fingers. He shot a worried glance up at Thor, and then back towards Clint.

“What did they give me?”

“A sedative,” Clint replied, apparently needing no clarification, and obligingly lowered the cup so that Peter could drink from the straw again, resting a hand on his shoulder. “When you first came around in the operating room, you freaked out a bit. Which was understandable, considering how they handled things. But Dr Shepherd thought it’d be a good idea to stick you with a hypodermic.”

“Shit,” Peter said again once he’d drained the glass, rubbing his fingers back and forth over his forehead. “Guess that explains why my head’s pounding.” He lowered the hand and flexed his fingers again. “And why my knuckles hurt.”

Clint’s lips twitched at that. “You were pretty badass, considering you’d just come out of surgery. Took out four of ‘em before I could even get to you.”

Thor gave a low, rumbling chuckle, squeezing the youth in a hearty one-armed hug. “Aye, you defended yourself well, Peter. I doubt the healers will make the same mistake twice. ”

“But the surgeons…they weren’t hurt too badly, right?” the teenager pressed, grimacing but otherwise offering no resistance when Clint readjusted the mask so that it covered his nose and mouth again. “Clint?”

The archer waved away his concern, crossing the room again to refill the empty plastic cup. “Nah, you bruised their egos more than their asses. Right, Thor?” He turned back to face them and his easy grin vanished abruptly, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he took a hasty step towards the bed. “Pete? Hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

Thor glanced back down at the youth sharply in time to see Peter raise a trembling hand to his mouth, yanking the mask off again with clumsy fingers, his eyes scrunched shut and his face pinched in an expression of discomfort.

“Peter?” Thor murmured, his tone echoing his teammate’s concern.

The youth lurched to the side, away from Thor, clinging to the edge of the mattress with white-knuckled hands. Turning his head a little, he opened his eyes long enough to cast a panicked glance towards Clint.

“You might want to step back,” he advised.

And promptly vomited all over the floor.

 

 

 

o~O~o

 

 

“This is ridiculous.”

Steve sighed softly, laying a consoling hand on the other man’s arm. “Tony...”

“I’m  _fine_ , damn it!” The mechanic’s eye twitched as the monitor above his bed made another high-pitched  _ping_  sound, two numbers flashing up in red, one above the other, in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. “Oh, for god’s sake, this is- No, you know what? Enough is enough. I’m outta here.”

“Hey, come on, don’t do this,” Steve placated, placing his hands over Tony’s when he began yanking at the electrodes stuck to his chest beneath his tank top. “The doctors just want to-”

“I don’t give a  _fuck_  what the doctors want to do, Steve!” Tony snapped, then stilled abruptly. He took a deep breath, then another, and although his expression remained mutinous, he stopped trying to remove the wiring, leaving his hands resting against his chest beneath Steve’s larger ones. “Sorry.”

Steve, having spent long, fractious months thousands of miles away from home in the middle of a warzone, in command of platoons of battle-scarred soldiers who literally had to fall asleep knowing there was the distinct possibility that their camp would be blitzed by enemy fire overnight, was no stranger to sudden outbursts of anger. It was anger born of fear and frustration, two emotions he was intimately acquainted with at present. But he’d be lying if he pretended that he was entirely indifferent to Tony’s outbursts. He could withstand verbal abuse from superiors and civilians alike without flinching, but somehow when _Tony_ said it, that method of detachment ceased to function. Perhaps it was a testament to how close their friendship had grown over the past year; he’d never liked seeing Bucky angry, either. And besides, the expression just didn’t suit Tony’s face.

“I know you’re frustrated,” Steve acknowledged quietly. “You hate medical exams as much as I do. But it’s important we make sure there’s nothing wrong; I figure we probably caught Peter’s infection pretty late in the game. I’m not letting it progress that far with you.”

The mechanic sighed again, less harshly this time. “Steve, buddy, there’s nothing wrong with me. I _know_ there’s nothing wrong with me. Okay? I  _sneezed._  Everyone’s overreacting.”

“Tony-”

“I’m _fine!”_

Steve pointed upwards. “Actually, I’m pretty sure the monitor’s saying your blood pressure’s too high.”

Tony glanced up briefly to glower at the screen, as though it alone was responsible for his current predicament. “That’s because I’m  _pissed off.”_

The super-soldier gave the warm, slightly weathered hands a gentle squeeze. “Just let the doctors finish their tests, okay? Please? I’m sure it won’t take much longer.”

“That’s what you said fifteen minutes ago,” the mechanic grouched, thumping his head back against the cushioned head of the examination bed. “I shouldn’t _be_ here. I should be in _there_ , with Peter. What if he wakes up again?”

“Clint and Thor can handle it,” Steve assured, although his heart clenched a little at the thought of the teenager flying into another panic attack without him there. Which was both completely irrational and somewhat selfish. Peter wasn’t  _his_  kid, and the others were perfectly capable of managing any problems that might arise while Steve was gone.

With a harsh, frustrated exhale, Tony renewed his glare towards the overhead screens. “I still don’t get why I need to be on full cardiac monitoring.”

Steve glanced back down at the wires snaking out from beneath Tony’s shirt, and realised with an unsettling flutter of his heart that their hands were still semi-intertwined. The other man either hadn’t noticed or didn’t mind, and Steve was almost guilty about how  _glad_  he was of the fact. Careful to keep his hands perfectly still to avoid alerting him to their position, he gave an easy shrug.

“Jason said it was just a precaution,” he reasoned, glad that his voice stayed steady, neutral. “Maybe he’ll be open to letting you wear a portable one instead, now that the nurses have finished taking the samples they need.”

Tony pulled a face at the word ‘samples’. “DNA-thieving vampires. If they try to clone me, I’m suing.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth curled up despite the deep-set anxiety still churning within him. “Why would they want to clone you?”

The man gave Steve an offended look. “Why  _wouldn’t_ they want to clone me? I’m awesome. Everyone wants a piece of this.” He made as though to gesture towards himself, but aborted the movement in a sudden moment of clarity when he realised that their hands were still touching. There was an agonisingly long pause, in which Steve’s stomach did an array of unpleasant contortions inside him, before Tony’s gaze flickered back up to meet his again, a friendly grin teasing at his lips. “See? Even you can’t keep your hands off me.”

“Sorry.” Steve began to withdraw, feeling his cheeks heating up and  _hating_  it, because his blond hair and pale skin made it even more obvious than it would otherwise have been. “I didn’t-”

Tony latched onto one of Steve’s retreating hands with both of his own, the teasing look vanishing quickly, replaced with something more genuine, less certain; almost _vulnerable_ in nature. “No, it’s...you’re fine. I don’t mind.”

His heart beating a little too fast (Steve was grateful that  _he_  wasn’t the one wired up to the cardiac monitor),  the soldier slowly set a hand back down on Tony’s chest, the other man’s fingers overlapping his own this time, and willed his blush to go away. _Damn it, Rogers. Pull yourself together._

It wasn’t like they’d never touched before. Over the past year or so, their friendship had transitioned from the amiable-but-impersonal-comrades phase and into something far more comfortable. And while it wasn’t anything like the friendship he’d once shared with Bucky (nothing ever could be, Bucky had been more like a brother than a friend, and Steve had been a different guy back then, too), it was no less intimate. Tony rarely had issues when it came to invading other people’s personal spaces, although he often liked to maintain his own, but Steve had never once found cause to complain. Half the time he wondered whether Tony legitimately forgot that he was a person rather than an extra-firm cushion when they were sprawled together on the couch down in the workshop, a Starkpad in Tony’s hands and a sketchbook in Steve’s, some atrocious ‘classic rock’ ballad blaring away in the background. Steve usually ended up with a stray limb tossed haphazardly over him, and every so often Tony would finally succumb to exhaustion and fall asleep against his shoulder, but that was just what friends did, right?

They practically lived out of each other’s pockets most days, too. Sometimes quite literally. Tony was always palming impatiently through his jacket or the pockets of his pants for Steve’s phone or a pen or a paperclip (the soldier would freely admit that his habit of carrying handy knickknacks around with him ‘just in case’ had continued on into the 21st century), or using his shoulders as an armrest when Steve was sitting down, or stealing a bite of his toast or a sip of his coffee ( _“Ugh, Steve, how can you drink it without sugar? What are you, a coffee purist?”)_  every morning at breakfast.

But  _this_...this felt different, somehow. Significant. Maybe it was the fact that they were doing it away from the Tower, away from _home_ , that made it feel intimate in a way the couch-sprawling sessions never had.

Given the almost tentative way that Tony’s hand was curling against his own, perhaps the mechanic felt the same way. Steve scarcely dared to draw breath lest he shatter the spell. He knew - judging from Tony’s previous dating history and his general offhand comments about particularly aesthetically pleasing males in the tabloids - that the billionaire pitched for both teams, as it were. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was into _Steve_. They were good friends – hell, the man was probably Steve’s  _best_  friend, or at least the best one he’d had since Bucky – and he would cut off his right arm before he knowingly did anything to jeopardise that relationship. Not unless he knew for  _certain_ _that his feelings were reciprocated_.

“Hey. What’s up?”

Startled from his inner musings, Steve blinked at the other man. “Hm?”

Tony lifted a hand to poke Steve’s cheek with the tip of his index finger. “You’re wearin’ a frowny face, McPouty-Trout. Stop worrying. Everything’s fine.”

Steve felt a quiet, exasperated smile curling at his lips. “Isn’t that what I’ve been saying to you for the past hour?”

“Yeah, well.” Tony gave an easy shrug. “I’m a versatile kinda guy. Can I use your phone?”

And just like that, the tension was broken. Still smiling, Steve shook his head fondly, using his free hand to retrieve his cell from his pocket and passing it over. Their hands were still touching, and that _meant_ something, but the unknown _thing_ that had shifted between them clearly hadn’t jumped far enough off the map that they were in unfamiliar territory. He wasn’t sure _what_ that meant, exactly, but he wasn’t willing to ruin the comfortable mood between them by pressing the issue. He was happy to let the matter rest. And happier still to let his hand rest on Tony’s a few minutes longer.

“Disco lights,” the mechanic announced, after several minutes of tapping away on the phone’s touchscreen.

Steve quirked an eyebrow at him. “Come again?”

“Peter’s new floor,” Tony elaborated, digging his phone out of his pocket with the hand that was tangled with Steve’s. “I’m gonna install disco light. Nothing says ‘cool’ like a midnight skateboard rave, and I’ve found a contractor who does custom designs. Kid’ll love it.”

His brow creasing a little, Steve leaned in to peer at the website displayed on his phone. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to give him the incentive to go skating in the dark?”

“Relax, Pops,” Tony drawled, a quiet grin forming, leaning sideways a little to nudge him in the shoulder. “Peter’s a big boy.” Then he gave a shrug and returned his attention to the screen. “Besides, I’ve already worked the impact-sensors into the floor design. It’ll alert the main system if he falls off his board too hard, and Jarvis’ll handle things from there.”

“Tony…” Steve side-eyed him suspiciously. “I thought we’d vetoed using Jarvis as a means to spy on people.”

“It’s not _spying_ , Steve, jeez. It’s babysitting. Completely different.”

The soldier gave him a knowing look. “I doubt that Peter’s going to see it that way.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll have a problem with it,” Tony replied casually, confidently.

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I’m building him an _indoor skate park_ , Steve. I don’t think he’s gonna want to complain about the smallprint in the contract.”

“…Fair point.”

 

 

 

o~O~o

 

  


 

Phil was in the process of chasing away his growing fatigue with another cup of strong, black coffee (he was usually a cream-and-sugar guy, but desperate times called for desperate measures) when a flicker of movement near the doorway caught his attention. He spared a brief glance that way, feeling his shoulders droop a little from their squared position at the sight of a familiar figure slouching casually against the metal filing cabinet just inside the door.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice low and rough from overuse. “Any news on Stark?”

“Dr Miller’s cleared him for now,” Clint replied, pushing himself away from the cabinet and moving steadily across the room to perch on the edge of the desk in front of Phil instead. “They’ve strapped a portable monitor to his wrist, just in case, but apparently his scans came back clear. Or clear enough for a sleep-deprived coffee addict with a non-biological power source screwed into his ribcage.”

“Good.” Phil massaged the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Last thing I need is Stark coming down with an infection.”

The archer stared at him silently for a moment, lips quirking, and Phil stared right back with an inquisitive slant to his eyebrows.

“What?”

Clint reached out, running a finger along the collar of Phil’s button-down shirt.

“Last time I saw you without your tie on at work, it was because you’d had to use it as a tourniquet on Jasper’s leg during the pygmy-dragon incursion of 2008.” His smile was warm, teasing. “Things aren’t _that_ bad yet, are they?”

Phil’s answering smile came quite without permission, weary but sincere, and he lifted a hand to catch hold of Clint’s, intertwining their fingers and brushing a kiss against the archer’s knuckles.

“No. No, we’re not quite there yet.” He gave the hand a squeeze, then dropped it, reaching for his discarded coffee mug instead. “How’s Peter holding up?”

Clint gave a short, sharp sigh, sobering up again in a matter of milliseconds. Bracing his booted feet on the edge of Phil’s chair either side of the agent’s legs, he gave a noncommittal shrug. “No better than the docs had predicted. But no worse, either. He’s still waking up in a panic every twenty minutes. And he’s started coughing up blood again.” He glanced towards one of the security feeds displayed on the monitor nearby, showing the activity in the main laboratory. “Have they made any headway?”

“Natasha went to check on Bruce about twenty minutes ago. Specimen identification is still progressing slowly, unfortunately the lab equipment is impervious to her ‘charm’.” He took another swig of the hot, bitter liquid. “Bruce thinks they’re close to an answer, but he doesn’t want to specify anything until the lab results come back with a positive match. The preliminary tests have ruled out a number of more sinister options, though, so he’s pretty confident they’ll be able to develop a treatment plan.”

“Which’ll probably take a few more hours, even after the results are back?”

“Most likely.”

Clint sighed, raking a hand through his hair, before shifting off the desk to sit unabashedly in Phil’s lap, looping an arm around his neck. Phil didn’t react beyond switching his coffee mug to the other hand for ease of access, his gaze passing between the various vidscreens. Clint was no lightweight, certainly, but Phil wouldn’t pretend that having him this close wasn’t calming in its own way. It had been a long quarantine period for all of them. To be honest, Phil was surprised the only casualty so far had been the microwave in the staff room and an unfortunate blood pressure machine.

“We should probably start thinking about running this gig in shifts,” the archer spoke after a while, fiddling absently with his partner’s collar. “None of us have slept in over twenty-four hours, and there’s no telling how long the treatment stage is going to take even if they _do_ manage to identify the infectious agent. Last thing we need is sleep deprivation messing with our heads.”

Phil nodded, his free hand settling on Clint’s hip as he turned his head to the side to drain the last of his coffee. “Good idea. The medical staff are already working an emergency four-hour rotation shift, you and the others should probably do the same.”

Clint gave a derisive snort. “Good luck prying Steve away from the kid’s bedside. You know how Rogers gets when one of the team is down.”

“Mm,” Phil acknowledged. “I didn’t say it was going to be easy.” His brow twitched, the barest flicker of an expression, before smoothing over again. “Clint. I’m losing circulation to my feet.”

“Are you calling me _fat?”_

“Your lipid concentration has nothing to do with it; I’m saying a man with your muscle bulk should be more considerate of these old legs.”

Clint grinned at the tone, leaning in to steal a quick kiss before standing up. “Sorry about that, Gramps.” He snatched up the discarded coffee mug. “Want another?”

Phil sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I shouldn’t. But yes please.”

“After all this is over, you’re putting in a request for some annual leave, and we’re going someplace nice for a week,” Clint insisted on his way to the door, hips swaying. “You work too hard, Boss.”

After watching him go with a fond look in his eyes, the senior agent propped his chin up on his hand with another sigh, elbow braced against the edge of the table, and returned his gaze to the vidscreens.

“And don’t I know it.”

 

 

 

o~O~o

 

 

 

Waking up _sucked._

Everything hurt. Like, literally everything. Places Peter hadn’t really thought about in several days, if not weeks, throbbed like he’d personally insulted them through his short-lived ignorance. His skin prickled, hovering somewhere between itchy goose-pimples and _ow-ow-ow-fuck_ , although unfortunately it leaned more towards the latter of the two sensations. And sweet _Jesus_ , he was cold. His muscles tensed, acknowledging the need to preserve heat by restricting the blood-flow, although it only really served to remind him just how much his body ached. He made a low, hoarse sound of pain at the back of his throat, pressing closer to the pillar of warmth that lay to one side of him.

“Peter?”

The same pillar of warmth which was apparently a person. A person who sounded suspiciously like Steve.

He contemplated pretending to be asleep for a little while longer, because opening his eyes would mean acknowledging that he was actively coveting Captain America’s body heat, but he figured dignity had been tossed to the wind the first time he’d woken up and apparently attempted to obliterate his surgical team. There were some things he was _really_ glad he couldn’t remember.

Swallowing, his throat dry and scratchy, he pried sleep-heavy eyes open to blink at his surroundings. The room was still dark (thank God), only fractionally illuminated by the UV bars that spanned the edges of the room, but the glow was sufficient enough for him to make out Tony’s form slumped in a chair at the bedside, arms crossed on the mattress near Peter’s hip and his head resting in the nest they made, fast asleep.

“Hey.” Fingers brushed through his hair, and he turned his head a little, tipping it back to gaze up at Steve. The soldier smiled, but there was a careful edge to it, like he wasn’t sure how Peter was going to react. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“M’not gonna go crazy,” was the first thing that came out of Peter’s mouth, croaky but audible.

Steve blinked at him, then slowly his smile widened into something warmer, something more _Steve_. “Good to know. How’s the head, son?”

Lifting a clumsy, shaking hand, Peter rubbed at his brow. “Hurts.” At the blast of cool air that suddenly decided to give his unprotected limb a touch of frostbite, he shoved the arm back under his blankets again. “Cap. S’freezing.”

“Jason said you’d probably feel that way.” Steve tucked the blanket up a little higher and the arm around Peter’s shoulders tugged him closer to the soldier’s side. “Your fever broke about an hour ago, and your body temperature’s been fluctuating ever since.”

Peter made a disgruntled noise, shoulders hunching as another shiver made his sore muscles tense up again. “Awesome. Anything else to look forward to?”

“Tony’s organising a surprise for you,” the soldier disclosed, apparently choosing to ignore the sarcasm in favour of answering him as though it had been a genuine question. He was good like that.

“Oh?” Peter perked up a little, forcing his eyelids to stop drooping. “What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Steve pointed out with fond patience.

Already feeling all of five years old (he’d never been able to stand _not_ knowing something, he’d been the sort of kid to strategically hunt down all the hidden Christmas gifts and try to work out what they were without removing the wrapping paper and giving himself away), he pulled out the big guns and gave Cap an innocent, wheedling smile.

“But Steeeeve…”

The older man chuckled and shook his head. “No, Peter.”

Unfortunately, his playful whine of frustration caught in his throat, startling a sharp cough from his chest, and all traces of humour vanished as he pressed his mouth shut firmly, hunching forwards and forcefully clamping down on the itch in his throat and the building pressure in his lungs. The need to cough was forceful enough to make his upper body spasm, his eyes streaming as he grabbed fistfuls of blanket and tried not to breathe.

“It’s okay,” Steve murmured, his hand settling on the back of Peter’s neck as he pressed a wad of clean tissues into the teen’s palm and gently tugged his mask out of the way. “It’ll pass.”

Only the urge _didn’t_ pass. The itch was worsening, his throat aching with the strain of suppressing the coughs. He didn’t dare take a breath in, knowing all too well that the coughing fit it would trigger would be _horrific_ ; the previous few had made it perfectly clear that they were steadily growing worse as time passed.

Eventually necessity beat willpower, his body betraying him as he sucked in a sharp, desperate lungful of air, only to expel it again a second later in a hacking cough. Hunching over even further, he covered his mouth with the tissues, shoulders shaking with the force of his coughing, chest and throat and eyes burning, heading pounding, muscles twisting white-hot from the strain of it. The overhead alarms were wailing again, and he knew without looking that his oxygen levels had plummeted and his heartbeat had skyrocketed. His thundering heart and the stars that decorated his vision confirmed that much.

And it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t _stop_.

Finally, after what felt like hours of agony, his gag reflex decided it’d had enough. Thankfully there was nothing left in his stomach after the previous vomiting episode to bring up, so when he retched painfully into the tissues, the only side-effect was that it (thankfully) seemed to send a resounding _nope_ to his lungs that stopped the coughing fit in its tracks.

Trembling in the wake of it all, he pliantly allowed strong, gentle hands to guide him back up into a sitting position rather than being bent double, his abdominal muscles aching and his chest on fire. Another mask was fitted over his nose and mouth, the sharper _hiss_ and the warm, damp air against his lips indicating that this one was humidified oxygen rather than the regular kind. That was good. Dry air meant a dry throat, and dry throats led to coughing fits. And he was _never_ having another one of those again. _Ever_.

His mouth had a salty, coppery taste to it that his brain only took a few seconds to place. Trying not to swallow (because ew, no thank you), he opened his eyes to glance down at the sodden wad of tissues still cupped in his trembling hand. Even in the dim blue-tinted light of the room, he could see how much blood he’d coughed up and…yeah. ‘Holy shit’ was an understatement.

“Just breathe, Peter,” Bruce spoke calmly (and when the hell had he arrived?), using a gloved hand to remove the stained tissues. There was a cluster of activity around him, medical staff hovering at the peripheries of the room and clutching an array of medical equipment between them, apparently prepared for the worst. “Not too quickly, or you’ll hyperventilate.”

Closing his eyes against a fresh sheen of tears, Peter sagged back against Steve’s side, grateful when the soldier’s arm wrapped around his shoulders again. He’d reached the point where he honestly didn’t _care_ who saw him cry – he felt like shit, he was probably dying, and everything _hurt_ ; fuck anybody who begrudged him a few tears – but Steve’s support certainly helped, and it gave him the added option of turning his face away from the medical team to gain a vague smidgen of privacy. It was an option he decided to take because…yeah, there was no way closing his eyes was magically going to stop him from crying, clearly his body was past that point.

Steve’s hand settled in his hair, drawing him in closer until his damp cheek could rest against the captain’s shirt. He was probably getting it covered in tears and mucus and God only knows what else, but he _hurt_ , dammit, and if Steve didn’t mind it then neither did Peter. He heard rather than saw Bruce ushering the gathered medical professionals out of the room, and he felt himself relax a little more, the pulsing anxiety that had set the back of his neck tingling again finally quietening to a low hum. It was just the team now. He was safe with the team. He didn’t have to stay on high-alert.

Gradually, the burning in his lungs receded and the ache in his muscles became more bearable. He’d stopped crying at some point – in all honesty, he was probably too tired to cry any more. Crying took energy, and there wasn’t a lot of that left to spare. Steve’s fingers brushed through his hair one last time before a finger clucked him lightly under the chin.

“Still with us, champ?”

Peter nodded, leaning back against the pillows again, grateful that Steve’s arm hadn’t shifted from around his shoulders. His eyes stung, as exhausted as the rest of him, and he closed them wearily.

“Here, kiddo.” His mask was tugged away for a moment and a straw tapped against his lips. He drank eagerly, opening his eyes again when it was pulled away a moment later. Clint arched an eyebrow at him in return. “Uh-uh. I’m not letting you puke on my shoes a second time, Parker. Itty-bitty sips, capiche?”

Peter’s lips twitched up in a weak semblance of a shaky smile, but he nodded, and Clint obligingly brought the straw back to his lips. After wetting his throat a little more, he turned his head to survey the room groggily. Apparently his coughing had warranted an ‘Avengers Assemble’; either that, or they’d all been sitting around in the room next door waiting for his monitors to alarm. Given their propensity for paranoia (and the general theme of overprotectiveness he’d witnessed over the past twenty-four hours), the latter scenario seemed more than likely.

Reclaiming his seat at the bedside now that all of the medical personnel had evacuated again, Tony leaned over to tug Peter’s mask back down. The teenager pulled a face at him, smiling when the multi-billionaire pulled a face right back. Tony’s hand dropped to settle on Peter’s wrist, giving it a light squeeze that was comforting in its familiarity as much as Steve’s one-armed hug was, and turned to face Bruce.

“I think I speak on Peter’s behalf when I say this situation is _bullshit,”_ he commented, a grim sort of tension underlying his otherwise casual tone of voice. “It’s been hours, Bruce, the labs gotta be able to tell us _something._ Anything?”

Rather than resignedly denying the request like Peter was expecting him to do, the scientist gave a slow, weary nod instead. “Jason’s sorting out the first stage of the treatment with the pharmacist as we speak. I would’ve come sooner, but we had to wait for the cross-match results to come back. We wanted to be sure.”

Suddenly significantly more awake than he had been before, Peter tensed, feeling a cold trickle of fear work its way down through his chest and into the pit of his stomach, where it solidified into a hard knot of anxiety. Swallowing, his throat still aching, he licked his lips to wet them a little.

“So you know what’s wrong with me?” he asked, hope and hesitation clouding his voice in equal measure.

Bruce nodded again, taking a seat at the foot of the bed beside Natasha. He glanced towards Clint and Thor, the only team members that had remained standing, and gave them a quiet, patient smile.

“You guys might want to sit down,” he advised. “This might take a while.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeell, so much for the 'big reveal'. I'd intended this chapter to mostly dedicate itself to explaining the specifics of Peter's underlying illness, but alas, Le Muse had other plans and the plot bunnies were particularly eager this update. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait until next time, my dear readers. All will be revealed, I promise!
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient, and for you continuing support and feedback. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint too much! I just had a lot of Peter/Team feels that needed venting. And Thor feels. I have a lot of Thor feels. (Pssst! There may or may not be a future Thor-centric story that involves the redemption and reformation of a certain raven-haired Jotun prince). 
> 
> Also, pygmy-dragon incursions could totally happen. You just need to piss off the wrong magical/mythical bad guy and boom! Raging baby dragons. It'd have to be something that bad for Phil to take off his tie, right? (I'm contemplating fleshing this one out to be part of my 'At Least We Didn't Panic' series - thoughts?)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Not Your Average Bug

Phil glanced up briefly from his report at the quiet knock on the door, cocking an eyebrow towards the man who stood there.

“Doctor,” he greeted neutrally. “Judging by your breach of dress code, I take it we’ve already disengaged quarantine procedures?”

Jason Miller flashed him a guilty smile, running a gloved hand over his short, dark hair with the air of someone who’d been itching to do that for a long while. The young medic had his helmet tucked under one arm, and Phil couldn’t fault him for his desire to finally take it off and breathe real, non-filtered air again after almost thirty hours stuck inside the thing. The isolation suits were practical and efficient, perhaps, but they were far from comfortable.

“Yes, sir,” the doctor confirmed. “We’ll still keep the barrier protocols in place around Parker’s isolation room, but that’ll mostly be for his own protection. He’s a lot more susceptible to infectious organisms in his current state of health, hardened immune system or no.” Jason’s gaze flickered down to the touchpad in Phil’s hand. “You’ve read my report, sir?”

Phil inclined his head. “It was very thorough. And on behalf of those of us without scientific qualifications, thank you for penning it in layman’s terms.” He tossed the pad back onto the desk and turned his chair a little to the side so that he could face the medic properly. “Are you absolutely _sure_ that Peter’s infection isn’t contagious?”

 “I’m positive,” Jason replied, and his confidence in the matter was genuinely reassuring. (Phil had heard the words _“I’m afraid we can’t say for certain”_ far too many times since this whole mess began; he appreciated positive, factual information for once). “The labs identified a match for every specimen sample we ran through the database.”

“Good.”

Public health and safety wasn’t something any of them could take lightly, given the severity of the teenager’s condition, and they certainly couldn’t risk an outbreak occurring in the heart of such a populated city; factoring in commuter travel and air traffic, the infection would become a nation-wide pandemic in a matter of weeks. The movies tended to get _that_ much right, if nothing else. And Phil ought to know; Clint had forced him to sit through every goddamn viral-outbreak-apocalypse themed movie that had been released over the course of the past decade, because apparently he didn’t get enough of that working for SHIELD. Unsurprisingly, there were very few helpful points to be gleaned from the vast majority of them, even the Hollywood-funded blockbusters.

That being said, Phil had admittedly gone on to select handful of short scenes from the worst of the bunch, and these were now used as a handy visual aid during the mandatory _‘How Not To Act During A Pending Apocalypse’_ seminar that every junior agent had to attend as part of their induction training.

Phil stood from his chair with a quiet sigh, leg muscles stiff and sore after so many hours of inertia. “How are things progressing with the treatment plan?”

The young doctor glanced down at his wristwatch. “We had to get one of the drugs air-lifted from The Hub,” he explained. “But it should be here within the hour. We’ll start running the meds through as soon as we can; pharmacy’s given us the all-clear from their end. Peter’s body chemistry shouldn’t react adversely to the drugs we’ve selected, provided we’re careful about the dosage.”

Phil nodded, straightening his jacket and adjusting his tie. Jasper had kindly brought him a spare one from his locker to avoid causing undue panic when he eventually left the medbay to report to Fury; it was apparently listed as a ‘warning sign’ in the unofficial junior agent’s handbook that if Agent Coulson was ever seen in a state of undress, it was best protocol to arm yourself for battle and report to your senior officer for further instruction. Clint found the rumour downright hilarious, and did his best to actively spread word to any new recruits that passed his way. Phil elected to ignore the issue entirely. Led to fewer headaches.

“Keep me informed,” he instructed, slipping his cell phone into his pocket. “Have you broken the news to Parker yet?”

“Dr Banner’s in there now,” Jason informed him. “There’s a lot to cover, as you might imagine.”

Phil nodded grimly, switching off the surveillance monitors and tossing back the last of his coffee as he moved towards the door, dropping the empty styrofoam cup into the trashcan as he passed it by. He paused briefly at the threshold to the office and reached out to clap Miller on the shoulder.

“Director Fury asked me to extend his congratulations, by the way.”

“He did what?” Jason’s eyebrows show up, a look of alarm crossing his features.

“Regarding your promotion to Chief Medical Officer,” Phil elaborated, with a bland, pleasant smile. “You’ll receive the relevant paperwork within a forty-eight hour window. If you could sign it and return it to my office by Monday, that’d be great.”

The young doctor blinked at him, flabbergasted, but obligingly stepped aside so that Phil could pass. The senior agent had almost made it to the end of the corridor before Jason’s voice rang out to him again.

“Um…what happened to Shepherd, sir?”

Phil smiled to himself and kept walking. “Do your job right, doctor, and with any luck you’ll never have to find out.”

 

 

 

o~O~o

 

 

 

“Asper-what now?”

“Aspergillosis,” Bruce repeated patiently, opening the plastic folder in his lap and taking out several coloured photographs, laying them on the bed near Peter’s legs. “Or, to be more precise, invasive pulmonary aspergillosis with aggressive left-lobular manifestation.”

The complex, jargon-packed title did little to calm the uneasy butterflies still churning in Peter’s stomach. He glanced between the printed images and Bruce’s calm, weary face, twisting a corner of his blanket between his fingers in the vague hope that giving them something to do would stop them from trembling so profoundly.

“Um…that sounds pretty bad,” he croaked at last, his voice uneven.

“It’s not _good_ ,” the scientist agreed gently, settling a comforting hand on Peter’s knee. “But it _is_ treatable. And your unique physiology might’ve prevented the infection from worsening; all in all, you’ve been pretty lucky this time around.”

Peter’s eyes flickered down to the photographs again. He hazarded a guess that they were printouts of the endoscopy he’d undergone the previous evening, but they didn’t look anything like the pictures he’d seen of healthy human lungs in his high school AP biology books. The tissue looked red-raw and damaged – at least the small amount of it that he could see; the rest was buried beneath a whole ton of white, fluffy stuff that he knew really, _really_ didn’t belong there.

“So it’s not, like, an alien virus or anything?” Clint prompted after a brief moment of silence, and Peter was grateful that the archer had elected to voice the question he’d felt too stupid to ask. “Pete didn’t catch it off of one of our extra-terrestrial visitors?”

“No,” Bruce answered, and managed a small, grim smile. “That’s one thing we know for sure. Aspergillosis is a fungal infection of the airways. Pretty rare, but not completely unheard of.”

“Fungal,” Peter echoed flatly. “There’s fungus. In my lung.”

“A whole fucking ton of it, apparently,” Clint agreed, leaning over Bruce’s shoulder to scrutinise the pictures in more detail. Tasha took advantage of his close proximity to her chair and kicked him sharply in the back of his knee. “Ah! What?”

“How’d he catch this asper-fungal-bullshit in the first place?” Tony pressed, ignoring the archer’s grumbling complaints as Clint scooted further away from the Russian spy. “I’m guessing it’s not something your average Joe can pick up walking down the street?”

Bruce shook his head. “Not exactly. Usually someone with a functioning immune system will break down the aspergillus spores before they ever have a chance to start multiplying in the respiratory tract. Actually, the only known cases of invasive pulmonary aspergillosis have been associated with people whose immune systems have been significantly compromised; cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy, people who’ve had organ transplants, that sort of thing.”

“But my immune system’s fucking _awesome_ ,” Peter protested, then shot a sideways wince at Steve at the accidental slip. The captain didn’t seem to have noticed though, his gaze focused on Bruce as he nodded gravely.

“I thought the spider bite had made him resistant to bacterial infections?” Steve queried, his brow creased. “The same way the serum boosted my own immunity?”

“Normally, I’d have to agree,” the scientist conceded. “Peter’s body has the ability to identify and destroy foreign antigens at a rate that’s second to none. But fungal spores and antibodies aren’t quite the same thing.” He adjusted his glasses with his free hand and leaned forwards a little, his gaze cutting back to the teenager. “It’s important to remember that the spider bite altered your genetic makeup significantly, Peter. It strengthened your immune system and adapted your physiology in a multitude of beneficial ways, that’s something we know for sure, but there was always the possibility that _defective_ genes might also have been transferred across.”

Steve’s arm tightened around Peter’s shoulders. “Defective genes,” he echoed, concern lacing his voice. “What kind of defective genes?”

Bruce sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that made him look even more exhausted than he had done previously, and Peter realised with a swell of intermingled gratitude and guilt that the scientist probably hadn’t slept since their arrival the previous morning, being the sole member of the team with a background in both medicine and biochemistry and therefore the only one who’d be of any real use to the SHIELD scientists. The teenager made a mental note to make it up to the doctor somehow, once he got out of here.

 _If_ he ever got out of here.  

“In the arachnid world there aren’t a lot of microorganisms that spiders can’t fight off,” Bruce explained, clearly choosing his words carefully. “But it’s a documented fact that certain species of fungi have the ability to bypass those defences and attack the host aggressively. In those situations, spiders are able to compartmentalise the invading pathogen to a particular area of the body in order to prevent it from becoming a systemic infection. It _does_ allow the invading fungi to grow and multiply at an exponential rate, but it also preserves the more vital body organs for as long as possible. I’m fairly certain that’s why the infection’s only present in your left lung, Peter, rather than thriving in your respiratory system as a whole.”

“But…I’m not actually a _spider_ ,” the teen pointed out, rubbing at his sternum absently where the low, background burning of his lungs was most prominent. “I can’t just cut off the blood flow to areas of my body on demand. I mean, in terms of anatomy and physiology I’m still, like, ninety percent human. Right?”

“True,” Bruce acknowledged. “But in the past your body’s displayed an innate ability to adapt and change in order to survive, and I think that’s exactly what it’s done here. Remember how your sudden asthma attack was the first acute sign that something was wrong?”

Peter nodded grimly. How could he forget? It had been fucking terrifying to wake up with his chest so tight that he could scarcely draw breath.

The scientist held up a clenched fist. “Okay, let’s pretend for a moment that this is your lung. Now, the aspergillus spores have been in there for a while, multiplying on the surface of your lung tissue, but things haven’t progressed to a point where they’re impeding your respiratory system. Not _yet_ , anyway. But your body knows that your immune system is fighting a losing battle to destroy the spores, so it does what it’s genetically predisposed to do and tries to isolate the infection.”

He took his other hand off Peter’s knee, closing it over his clenched fist. “It’s not able to cut off circulation to the lung, since it’s too vital an organ. So instead it forms a fluid barrier in the interstitial space between the epithelial cells of the lung wall; a one-way channel that the fungal spores aren’t able to penetrate. But the thickened membrane has the unfortunate side-effect of mimicking the bronchiole swelling of an asthma attack.”

Realisation was beginning to dawn slowly; for Peter at least, even if the rest of his team seemed a little lost. Well, with the exception of Tony who, predictably, was already googling the more complex medical jargon on his Starkpad, nodding whenever Bruce paused for breath.

“So it didn’t _trigger_ an asthma attack, it was just symptomatic of one?” Tony reiterated, glancing up briefly to meet the scientist’s gaze.

“Exactly,” Bruce confirmed. He lowered his hands again, regarding Peter with infinite patience. “You with me so far?”

Peter nodded slowly. It was a lot to take in, but things were starting to make a helluva lot more sense now and he trusted Bruce’s judgment in the matter. More than he trusted the SHIELD scientists, anyway.

“I think so.” He fiddled with the green-tinted oxygen tubing for a moment, a faint frown creasing his brow. “When you said I was ‘genetically predisposed’...d’you mean I’ve got an inbuilt biological default button that’ll give me an asthma attack whenever I catch a virus?”

Bruce shook his head. “No, not quite. The circumstances surrounding this particular infection were unique. You see, most invading pathogens wouldn’t manifest themselves quite so aggressively, and while they _might_ pass into the bloodstream, it’s unlikely they’d end up colonising your vital organs. Fungal cells, on the other hand, can quickly disseminate throughout the body and lead to a rapid onset of organ deterioration. Thanks to your altered genetic structure, your immune system identified the infection as fungal before it could pass into your circulatory system, and put the fluid barrier around your lung in an attempt to prevent that from happening for as long as possible.” 

Peter massaged his temple, hoping to alleviate the headache that was building there. “So my immune system knows how to build an impromptu physiological barricade around my lung, but it isn’t able to destroy a few fungal cells?”

“Unfortunately, there are more than just a few.” Bruce picked up one of the photographs and indicated the denser area of white cotton-candy-like growth. “With the fluid barrier in place, your body’s immune system had to stop trying to fight off the infection. The fungal cells were free to multiply unchallenged, and your lung provided the perfect conditions for rapid colonisation. Warmth, heat, nutrients, protection; it was better than an incubated petri dish. That’s why our scans showed such accelerated growth.”

Peter stared at the gruesome image with a faint grimace twisting his lips. “What happened to ‘you got pretty lucky this time around’? I’m having a hard time picturing the bright side here.”

Actually, if anything, it sounded like his spider-acquired genes were to _blame_ for most of this mess. He was having trouble seeing the apparent silver lining to his current colossal-sized raincloud.

“You have to understand, Peter,” the more serious tone of Bruce’s voice reawakened the butterflies in Peter’s stomach, “if someone’s IPA had progressed as far as yours has, the prognosis wouldn’t be good. For the average person, an infection this severe would’ve become systemic a long time ago – and once the fungal cells become fully blood-borne, they begin to colonise in the other vital organs within a seventy-two hour period. Eventually the infection passes through the blood-brain barrier and starts growing in the meninges. There’s not a lot modern medicine can do for someone with a systemic infection _that_ widespread; the mortality rate usually sits between eighty and ninety percent.”

A moment of silence followed, a collective sense of shock at the words. Peter’s head was spinning, his ears ringing and his fingers feeling cold and tingly as his heart did an unsettling drop into his stomach. He swallowed past the painfully thick lump in his throat, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“You mean…I could _die_ from this?”

“No,” Bruce was quick to reassure, closing his hand over the teenager’s knee again. “No, buddy. By isolating the infection to your lung, your body managed to keep the fungal cells from entering your bloodstream right up until the last minute. And the asthma-like symptoms it triggered actually _alerted_ us to the underlying problem; so while fluid barrier may have worsened the colonisation in your airways, it might just have saved your life.”

The latter part of that sentence sounded pretty good, but Peter’s brain had fixated on an earlier statement. “Up until the last minute?” he repeated hesitantly. “Does that mean it _has_ moved into my bloodstream?”

The doctor paused, sighed grimly, and gave a single nod of confirmation. “The last blood sample we took held trace amounts of the aspergillus mould. Not enough to be a serious cause for concern, but it’s an indication that the fluid barrier is no longer acting as an adequate defence against the infection.”

“So where do we go from here?” Clint pressed after a moment of grave silence. The archer had moved to perch at the end of the bed on the opposite side to Bruce, one hand resting lightly on Peter’s ankle. He had one foot braced on the mattress, a knee tucked up to his chest in what would have otherwise appeared to be a casual position, were it not for the telling pinch around his eyes that Peter could easily interpret as a deep-set unease. “You said the infection was treatable?”

Bruce nodded. “We can target the colonisation directly in its current state. A week or so of intensive intravenous and inhaled drug therapy should eliminate the infection in its entirety.” The scientist turned his gaze back to the teenager, and his smile was a little warmer and less forced this time. “You’re going to be fine, Peter.”

Sagging a little out of both relief and exhaustion combined, Peter gave a slow nod. “Okay,” he murmured, for lack of anything better to say. To be fair, it was all a little overwhelming.

Bruce glanced around at the assembled team members. “Did everyone else follow all of that?”

“Nay,” Thor spoke with grim resignation. “Your science lies beyond my understanding. But I needn’t clarify such details when more pressing questions present themselves.” He leaned forwards in his perch, the table creaking ominously beneath his weight. “Whence did Peter acquire so serious an affliction? None of our present company have fallen ill, and Peter has seldom strayed from our side in recent weeks.”

“The fungal spores are airborne,” Tony answered before Bruce could so much as open his mouth. His gaze was still fixed on the screen of the Starkpad in his hand, the pad of a finger deftly scrolling through page after page of text. “Could’ve happened anywhere. Although, given how fast they multiplied in his lung, I’m betting it was somewhere with a pretty high spore-count.”

“The aspergillus spores usually thrive in rural areas,” Bruce added. “Anywhere with dense vegetation and warm weather. Farms, parks, compost heaps – like Tony said, it could’ve happened anywhere.”

“What about that dimension split in Redwood Park at the beginning of last week?” Clint suggested, glancing between them. “We were stuck in there all night, herding those creepy electric ghost things away from the camping sites. And I’m guessing the spore count in a forest is pretty high, right?”

Bruce was nodding, his eyes narrowed a little in thought. “That’s a definite possibility. And the time lapse would account for the extent of fungal growth in Peter’s lung. It certainly had to have been multiplying for well over ninety-six hours to have reached its current level of tissue colonisation.”

“These fungal spores, do you think they might have infected the rest of us?” Steve sought to clarify.

The doctor shook his head. “That’s unlikely to be the case. It’s only Peter’s altered genetics that’ve made him more susceptible to fungal pathogens.”

“So, what?” Peter blurted, still reeling from the sudden onslaught of information after twenty-four hours of what-ifs and ‘worse case scenarios’. “Am I just gonna have to live in a _bubble_ for the rest of my life to avoid breathing in spores?”

“I can build you a suit,” Tony offered quickly, finally glancing up from his Starkpad. “‘ _Iron Spider’_ – sounds pretty badass, right?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bruce reassured, gathering up the scattered photographs and slipping them back into his plastic folder. “You won’t have to isolate yourself from the rest of the world. But you _will_ need to take prophylactic antifungal medication.”

Peter looked hesitant. “How often? And for how long?”

Bruce gave another short, grim sigh. “Every day, buddy. For the foreseeable future.”

_“What?”_

“It’s the only way to make sure you don’t have a relapse,” the older man reasoned calmly, patting his knee again. “Your body’s unlikely to adapt defences against the aspergillus spores anytime soon, and there’s always the risk that _other_ fungal cells will try to colonise in your airways at a later point. It’s better to take preventative measures rather than waiting to tackle an acute onset of infection, don’t you think?”

It made sense. Of course it did; Bruce was always flawlessly logical about these things. Didn’t mean that Peter had to be happy about it, though.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” the scientist acknowledged kindly, his voice a low and soothing hum. “But I needed to give you all the facts so that you could make an informed decision.”

Peter eyed him hesitantly. “About what?”

“About your treatment plan.” Bruce took another deep, bracing breath. “You’ll need to stay here for at least a week, until your course of IV drugs are over. I’m afraid the potential side-effects and complications aren’t something I’m happy to handle back at the Tower. It’s safer for you here.”

A _week?_ Fucking hell, he was going to die. He’d be climbing the walls – literally – after another day stuck in this place, never mind a _week_. He _hated_ medical.

His reluctance must’ve shown in his face, because a moment later Steve’s arm tightened around his shoulders in another comforting squeeze. “Hey. It’ll be fine, champ; you’ll be out of here before you know it. And we’ll keep you company in the meantime.”

“But if it’s not infectious, doesn’t that mean you guys are all free to go?” Peter queried, grateful for the offer but feeling obliged to state the obvious. He glanced between his assembled teammates. “You don’t need to be quarantined any more, right?”

Clint’s gaze snapped towards Bruce. “That true, Doc?”

The scientist nodded. “Unless any of us start experiencing symptoms, then yes, we’re free to go. The infection doesn’t pose a risk to public health.”

“Right on!” Clint fist-pumped the air. He shot Peter a cheerful grin and hopped to his feet with his usual exuberance. “Yo, Tasha, we’re so getting take-out. If I have to eat cafeteria food again, I’ll turn into a fucking plastic spork.” He gestured towards the other occupants of the room with a lazy twizzle of his index finger. “Cheeseburgers and fries all-round?”

Unsurprisingly, the notion was met with approval from all involved. Natasha stood gracefully from her chair, glancing towards Peter as she passed the end of his bed and reaching out to flick the sole of his foot sharply by way of a parting gesture. Peter jerked his leg back in an automatic response, but it served to break the tension, the corners of his mouth kicking up a little as something that was almost-but-not-quite a smile ghosted briefly over the agent’s lips before vanishing again.

Clint cheerfully accepted the Platinum card that Tony wordlessly extended towards him, the mechanic’s attention still thoroughly absorbed in the reams of text he was scrolling through. Pocketing it, the archer leaned over to slap Thor on the shoulder.

“Hey, big guy, you wanna come?”

“Aye, ‘twould be pleasing to breathe free air once again,” the Asgadian agreed, standing quickly and hefting Mjolnir up from the floor. He stepped closer to the bedside and settled a gentle hand on Peter’s head. “We shall return with our bounty shortly, my young friend.”

Peter glanced between his teammates, a little confused, and _more_ than a little hopeful. “You’re not all heading back to the tower?”

Tony snorted humourlessly, smacking the side of Peter’s leg lightly with the Starkpad. “Don’t be stupid, kid. You’re not getting rid of us that easy.”

“You sure the fungus hasn’t addled his brain, Bruce?” Clint added, tossing a scrunched-up sheet of paper at Peter’s head (and seriously, where was he getting those from?). Steve’s hand caught it in front of his face before Peter’s shoddy reflexes even had time to react.

“Clint,” the captain reproached.

The archer held up his hands defensively, but his grin was unapologetic. “Joking, joking.” He met Peter’s gaze. “What you hungry for, kid? Curly fries? Dunkin’ donuts?”

In truth, Peter wasn’t really hungry for anything at all, but the thought of fast-food seemed appealing enough to _try_ a little something. He managed a small, tired but genuine smile.

“Curly fries?”

Clint gave him a sloppy salute, already backing towards the door. “You got it, bud. Don’t go anywhere.”

Peter sighed softly, leaning back against Steve’s shoulder again once they’d left. By the sounds of things, he wouldn’t be ‘going anywhere’ for quite some time. A whole week stuck in this god-forsaken place? Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

It was a relief to know the truth at last, though, after endless hours of worrying. He may have been joking with Clint about the _Alien_ chest-buster scene, but he couldn’t deny that similar images had crossed his mind every time the medics had run another scan and informed him that the mass in his lung had grown by a further inch. A shitload of fungi growing inside him wasn’t exactly welcoming news, either, but at least it was treatable. And it hadn’t come from a non-terrestrial source. Bruce was right, it could’ve been a helluva lot worse.

Well…he could be _dead_.  

“Hey. You still with me?”

 Stirring from his thoughts with a mental shake, Peter blinked at the empty spaces where Bruce and Tony had once been. Jesus, his Spidey-senses were crap in his current state of health. He hadn’t even heard them leave.

“Yeah,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Sorry. It’s just...a lot to take in.”

“I know.” Steve gave him one last squeeze before sliding away, and Peter missed the warmth and security of his presence immediately (and felt like a pathetic five-year-old for doing so). But the super-soldier hadn’t gone far, only crossing over to cabinet on the other side of the room to refill Peter’s cup. “I’m still processing some of it myself, and I’m not the one stuck in a sickbed.”

He perched on the edge of the mattress so that he was facing Peter this time, helping to tug down the teenager’s mask and angling the straw towards his lips. Peter drank gratefully, his throat still dry and sore from his endoscopy, his voice hoarse from overuse. Steve seemed to know intuitively when he’d had enough, setting the cup aside and readjusting the mask without comment, and Peter appreciated the assistance. Truth be told, he was _way_ past exhausted. This was the longest he’d stayed awake since his operation, and he’d had a helluva coughing fit in the middle of it to boot; he had absolutely no energy reserves to draw from. All he wanted to do was sleep.

And yet another part of him really, _really_ didn’t want to go to sleep. Neurologically, he felt more like himself than he had done in hours, and his mind was buzzing with the volume of new information he’d just received. The scientist in him wanted to wheedle the Starkpad from Tony so that he could research aspergillosis until he knew _everything_ about the condition, until the myriad of questions and fears and concerns had been answered and soothed and silenced. But he doubted, in his current state, that he’d even be able to hold the Starkpad on his own, let alone keep his eyes open long enough to actually look at the screen.

“You should get some sleep,” Steve advised gently, clearly having gaged his level of debilitating fatigue. “Computer? Lights out.”

Peter made a noise of protest at that, because the faint illumination had been the only thing keeping him awake (he suspected Bruce might have activated the dimmed spotlights during their earlier conversation for that very purpose). It still wasn’t pitch-black, not with the constant, eerie glow of the UV lights around the edge of the room, but it was enough for his brain to decide that it was time to switch off entirely.

“You’ll wake me up, right?” Peter asked, the words slurred as his eyelids drooped. “When the others get back?”

Steve leaned over him a little to tug the blanket up a little higher. “You need as much rest as you can get,” he reasoned. “We can keep your food warm until you wake up.”

The teenager shook his head fractionally, too tired to manage much else. It wasn’t _about_ the food. He’d been asleep for the majority of the past thirty hours, he didn’t _want_ to sleep anymore.

“No, s’okay. I wanna wake up.”

“Peter.” He heard the captain sniff a grin at his half-assed protest; felt fingers smooth down his sweat- and pillow-mussed hair. “If you’re going to keep fighting me about this, I could always make it an order,” Steve murmured, his tone warm with amusement.

Peter opened one eye to peer at him blearily, lips twitching up in the beginnings of a smile that he didn’t have the energy to fully form.

“You wouldn’t.”

“No?” Steve cocked an eyebrow at him, his own smile fond and teasing. “How about you don’t wait around to find out?” He cupped the side of Peter’s neck with a large hand, his thumb brushing the pulse-point, and the teenager’s eyes slid closed again wearily. “Go to sleep, son.”

Oh, _fine_. If he insisted.

 

 

 

 

o~O~o

 

 

 

There was a goldfish on the bedside table. In a hazmat helmet.

Peter blinked, shook his head a little, and looked again. Yep, still there. A normal bought-at-the-fair-in-a-bag goldfish swimming around in an upside-down isolation suit helmet, and he wasn’t even dreaming. Unfortunately, Peter could tell by the way his body ached that he had his feet planted firmly in the here and now.

Funnily enough, this wasn’t even the weirdest thing that he’d woken up to since joining the Avengers. It didn’t even make the top ten. Seriously, when had this become his life?

“That’s Leonardo.”

Peter’s gaze slid slowly, sleepily, away from his aquatic roommate to peer at the figure sitting in the bedside chair. Agent Coulson observed him with his usual unflappable calm, and Peter couldn’t help but stare right back at him; unless he was very much mistaken, the badass senior SHIELD operative appeared to be reading _The Wind In The Willows_ by the light of a clip-on-page flashlight. He also unfairly suited those reading glasses. And okay, Peter’s brain wasn’t ready to handle this level of unexpected just yet, hold the fucking phone.

“Um…” he managed.

“Thor’s idea,” Phil elaborated, because apparently they were still talking about the fish and not about the fact that Coulson had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves like this was an acceptable thing to do outside of an apocalypse. “He wanted to buy you a tarantula, but Natasha managed to talk him down from that idea. This was the compromise.”

Peter blinked at that. He wasn’t sure what would constitute as an appropriate response to receiving marine life from Asgardian princes. So he settled for the easier option.

“Leonardo?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth turned up in a flicker of genuine amusement. “Short for ‘Leonardo da Fishy’, apparently. No second guesses needed as to who named it.”

“Clint?”

“Mm.” Phil carefully marked the page in his book, the smile still playing at his lips. “He’s easily amused.” He set the novel aside and laced his fingers together, elbows braced on his knees as he gave Peter his full attention. “How are you feeling?”

Peter took a moment to assess things. He still felt like shit, but the fatigue wasn’t quite as pressing as it had once been, and the ache in his throat from the endoscopy had all but gone. Apparently his healing factor had finally managed to summon up the oomph to do something right for once. Although it hadn’t done much for the crick in his neck – he’d slept with the head of the bed raised and pillows stacked up behind him to ease his breathing, and presently his muscles weren’t thanking him for it. It was bearable, though, compared to the pain he’d previously experienced during coughing fits.

“Could be worse,” he answered at last, his voice hoarse and rough from sleep.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it; the last time you told me that, you had a bullet wound in your thigh.” Procuring a can of soda seemingly from nowhere and popping the cap open, Phil slid a straw inside and passed it over. “Don’t drink too much at once. My shoes are more expensive than Barton’s.”

Taking it with a smile (his stomach wasn’t ready for anything solid just yet, but it was a welcome change from room-temperature water, which would currently be his only other option), he tugged the oxygen mask down out of the way and took a careful sip of the carbonated liquid. He was suddenly _parched_ , and it was an effort not to gulp the whole thing down, but Phil’s ever-watchful gaze kept the urge in check.

Searching for a distraction between sips, Peter cast his eyes around the room. It was still dimly lit, and aside from the agent (and the goldfish), he was alone. The bag of intravenous fluids had been taken down, instead replaced with a large mechanical syringe driver that was apparently pumping a translucent substance into his body via the connecting tubing hooked up to the cannula in his arm. He eyed it with distaste.

“What’s in that?”

“The second set of antifungal meds,” Phil replied. “They already infused the first dose while you were sleeping. Don’t worry,” he added, no doubt seeing the alarm Peter knew was showing in his expression, “we cleared it with pharmacy and path-labs first. It’s not an antibiotic, so it shouldn’t react adversely with your system beyond a low-grade fever.”

Peter resisted the urge to poke at the cannula, noticing with a twinge of guilt that they’d secured this one down with extra tape (no doubt in an attempt to prevent him from yanking it out like he’d done the previous six – although in his defence, he hadn’t been lucid at the time). He took another sip of his soda and glanced back around the room, looking for a clock. It frustrated him that there wasn’t one. He’d always been the sort of person who _needed_ to know what time it was, even if he had nothing planned for the day.

His gaze shifted to look at the agent. “How long was I out?”

“About five hours.” Coulson had pulled out his cell phone and was thumbing a text with brisk efficiency, barely glancing at the screen as he typed. “It’s around mid-morning. Average day, a little overcast; it’ll probably rain later.”

Peter felt a smile tug at his lips. “Sure you didn’t miss your calling as a newscaster?”

“Politics gives me migraines,” Phil answered without missing a beat.

“They have meds for that.”

“I prefer alternative therapies.”

“Like shooting stuff?”

Phil’s gaze flitted up to look at him again, and after a brief pause another flicker of a smile curled at his lips. “From time to time.”

Peter’s own smile widened a little in response, and it occurred to him (with a slight twinge of guilt at the thought) that this was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had, just the two of them. At least since his initial drafting into the Avengers after the whole mess with Oscorp and Dr Connors.

Sure, Peter saw the guy regularly enough around the tower – he did _live_ with them, after all – but between SHIELD business and liaising for the Avengers and working ridiculously long hours off-site, Phil’s free time was quickly eaten up, and the teenager rarely had a chance to say a handful of words to him in passing most days. There were movie nights and team dinners, of course, and Phil joined them as often as his busy schedule permitted, but those were always with at least another five (or more) people present. Never just the two of them, like this. And Peter had to admit, it was actually kind of…nice. Phil had this air of calm and control around him that seemed to come naturally, and everything about Peter’s situation seemed a little less dire in light of it.

It made Coulson’s fits of temper – exceedingly rare though they were – downright terrifying to behold, but in all other aspects his level-headedness was a positive trait.

“Did you finally manage to convince the other guys to go home?” Peter asked, gesturing to the empty seats left in the wake of his absent teammates.

“I convinced them to go to _sleep_ ,” Phil corrected, and nodded towards the opposite wall. “In the adjacent bay. I doubt Clint’ll stay down for more than a couple of hours, though; you know how he gets. And Thor’s gone to get breakfast in the cafeteria, he won’t be long.”

Peter eyed him curiously. “Are _you_ gonna sleep?”

A noncommittal shrug. “I’ve gone longer without.”

“Don’t think that’s really the point, sir.”

Phil gave him another mildly amused look, before returning his attention to his cell phone. “I spoke to your aunt,” he mentioned, offhandedly. “Told her you wouldn’t be able to visit for a few days.”

“You did _what?!”_ Peter choked, fumbling with the soda can.

“I didn’t disclose any specific details,” Phil reassured, his hand retreating from where it had shot out to steady Peter’s grip on his drink. “You have the right to withhold that information if you really want to. I wouldn’t have said anything at all without your consent if she hadn’t contacted me first.”

Peter balked at that. “She phoned _you?_ ”

“I gave her my number the day you moved into the Tower,” the agent replied evenly. “In case she ever needed assistance and couldn’t get through to you.” He levelled Peter with a look that the teenager would almost categorise as _chiding_. “When you failed to answer the numerous voicemails she’d left you, she became concerned for your welfare. Which is understandable, given the nature of your profession. She wanted to make sure nothing terrible had happened to the team.”

Peter scrubbed a hand down his face slowly. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. He’d completely forgotten about his promise to visit Aunt May the previous afternoon. And his cell phone was probably still tucked under the pillow in his bedroom back at the Tower, where he always kept while he was sleeping to stop himself from smashing it to bits in a knee-jerk reaction to the alarm that went off at seven o’clock every morning. Tony had already fixed it for him twice, and although the billionaire had laughed it off and ruffled Peter’s hair like breaking the new Starkphone model was no big deal, the teenager had still felt guilty for days over the needless destruction of a fifteen-hundred dollar piece of tech. Stashing it under his pillow meant that it took an extra couple of seconds to get his hands on the device when the alarm sounded, by which time his higher brain functions generally tended to have buffered themselves into action. It had seemed like a flawless plan at the time.

Until he’d gone and left it behind.

“I’m a horrible nephew,” he lamented glumly, one hand still resting over his eyes.

Phil pocketed his phone and patted the teenager’s arm consolingly. “I doubt your aunt will see it that way. She was worried about you.”

Peering at the agent through his fingers, Peter inquired, “What exactly _did_ you tell her?”

“That you’d had a rough night,” the older man replied. “And that although we’re certain you’ll make a full recovery, you’ll need a few days to get your strength back. I promised to keep her updated on your progress, and told her you’d call home as soon as you were feeling up to it.”

Well, at least Coulson had been tactful about the situation; he’d told Aunt May enough to settle her fears, but not enough to clue her into how bad things could have been. It was a conversation Peter wasn’t particularly looking forward to. But he’d promised her after the mess with Oscorp that he was done keeping secrets from her, and he wasn’t the sort of guy who went back on his word, regardless of how difficult things became.

And if in doubt, he’d pass the buck to Steve. Aunt May had called him a ‘charming young man’ the first time they’d met, and the teenager was still half convinced that the captain’s sincere, soft-spoken promise to protect her nephew with his life had been what had swayed Aunt May in favour of allowing Peter to go and live with the Avengers. That, and the fact that Steve had readily agreed to the importance of instigating curfews and school-night ‘bedtimes’ until Peter had graduated from high school; something Clint had teased him about incessantly during the weeks leading up to summer break.

But the end result was that his aunt trusted Steve with Peter’s safekeeping (which was ridiculous, because he was a high school graduate now and completely capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much), and consequently might take the news of his illness a little better if it came from a fellow caretaker rather than from Peter, who had a bad habit of understating things without really meaning to.

“Hey, squirt.” Clint leaned in the doorway to the isolation room, smiling. “You’re looking better than you did earlier. How’s the- _fuck_ , sir!” The archer covered his eyes and made a flapping motion with his other hand. “Not in front of the _kid_. Put some clothes on!”

Phil sniffed a grin, shaking his head as he slipped the reading glasses into his top pocket, rolling his shirt sleeves back down and buttoning them at the wrist before shrugging on his suit jacket. He fastened it, brushing invisible lint from his collar.

“Alright, I’m decent.”

Clint gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, dropping his hands, and sauntered over to the bed with his grin back in place. “Don’t let any of the junior staff see you like that,” he cautioned, a teasing edge to his voice. “There’ll be chaos in the cafeteria. Terrible gossips, y’know.”

“And I’m sure you don’t do anything to help fan the flames,” Phil commented dryly, tugging down Clint’s shirt where it had ridden up at the hip. The archer had apparently just rolled out of bed.

“Me, sir?” Clint put a hand to his chest and sent Phil his sincerest wide-eyed look of innocence. “Never.”

“Oh my god, please stop flirting with each other,” Peter groaned into the hand he’d used to cover his face. “It’s too weird.”

Phil turned to look at him, clearly amused. “Our relationship concerns you, but the goldfish in the hazmat helmet doesn’t?”

“Hey,” Clint protested, stroking the rim of the helmet with undue tenderness. “Leave Leonardo out of this, he’s the victim here. Little guy’s just lucky Jason was standing nearby when the bag broke. Thought he was a goner for sure.”

“Jason or the fish?”

Clint tilted his head to one side in thought. “Possibly both. Thor’s gotten pretty attached to it already, not sure how things would’ve gone down if Leo hadn’t made it.” He perched on the edge of the bed beside Peter, lifting a hand to tap his index finger under the teenager’s chin. “Mask, buddy.”

Peter sighed wearily (he was already sick of the damn thing), but obligingly tugged his oxygen mask back up over his nose and mouth. He’d finished two thirds of the soda, but his stomach was feeling full after so long without anything in it, so he set the rest of the drink aside next to Leonardo’s makeshift tank and wriggled against the pillows to get comfortable again. A headache was beginning to thump behind his temples and he winced, scrubbing at his eyes to try and alleviate it.

It was ridiculous how easily he grew tired in his present condition; a ten-minute conversation and a can of soda, and his body was already keen to go back to sleep again for another five hours. Stupid infection. All he’d done for the past day and a half was sleep. He was sick of sleeping. He was also fairly certain he’d argued this point with himself before, it sounded eerily familiar.

God, he was tired.

He could’ve sworn that he only closed his heavy, itchy eyelids for a matter of seconds, but when he opened them again Phil had gone and Clint was slouched in his vacated chair, socked feet propped up on the area of mattress next to Peter’s legs. He’d apparently swiped Tony’s touchpad from him while he was sleeping, and was writing something with the stylus, his brow pinched in an expression of utmost concentration.

“Whassat?” Peter slurred and yeah, he’d definitely been sleeping, his throat was dry and his tongue felt thick again.

Clint shifted his gaze from the screen of his Starkpad, a ready smile rising to the fore even as he very deliberately turned off the device and set it to one side.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted, leaning forwards in the chair to rest his elbows on the mattress. “Feeling better?”

“Nnng,” the teenager replied honestly. He could feel the tell-tale catch of mucus in his chest every time he took a breath, and knew he needed to cough it up. But he really, really didn’t want to because coughing hurt, and so far his day had actually been going pretty well.

The archer scrutinised him closely. “Pete? What’s wrong?”

Peter shook his head, keeping his breathing calm and shallow and even, determined to abstain from coughing until it became absolutely necessary. “Nothing, m’okay,” he reassured, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. “Can I have some water, please?”

“Sure, kid.” Clint stood to retrieve it, peering back over his shoulder at Peter as he poured it, his eyes bright with warm humour. “No sneaking a peak at the blueprints while I’m over here. You’re not allowed to see it yet; it’s a surprise.”

The teenager kicked off his blankets – _too hot, too hot, too hot_ – and gratefully accepted the full cup of iced water, tugging down his mask again to take a quick gulp.

“It’s not the same surprise Tony’s been working on, is it?”

Clint gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maaaaybe.”

“Don’t I even get a clue?”

“Nope.”

Peter gave him a pathetic, wheedling look.

“Hn-nn,” Clint shook his head with a smile, reaching for the Starkpad again as he reclaimed his seat, “not gonna work, kiddo.” He tapped on the screen for a few moments, then flipped it around to show the teenager. “Pick something.”

Eyeing the webpage briefly, Peter reached out to tap one of the icons. Clint flipped it around to look at it and arched an eyebrow. “Seriously? _The Lion King_? Again?”

“It’s an awesome movie,” Peter defended unapologetically.

“Dude, _Robin Hood_ was right next to it.”

Peter made impatient grabby hands towards the device and said, dismissively, “Yeah, s’not as good though.”

The archer deliberately held the Starkpad out of reach. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Clint.” The name came out as a whine, elongating the vowel significantly.

“You said something about _Robin Hood_ ,” Clint prompted, undeterred. “Just thought you might want to rephrase it.”

Peter gave a long-suffering sigh, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I said that _Robin Hood_ was substantially more awesome than _The Lion King_. Obviously.” He held out his hand. “Now gimme.”

“See, was that so hard?” Clint passed him the Starkpad as he stood, nudging Peter in the arm. “Budge up, short-stuff.”

Once they were settled side by side on the bed (Peter was once again thankful for the width of the medbay cots, which had clearly been designed with people like Thor in mind and thus had plenty of room to spare), Clint tossed an arm casually over the back of the pillows behind Peter’s shoulders and tapped the screen to start the movie.

“If you start singing,” Peter warned, a low mumble, “I’ll push you off the bed.”

Clint side-eyed him with a challenging sort of look, but said nothing.

Until, of course, the opening sequence to ‘ _Circle of Life'_  began, wherein he immediately launched into lyrical Zulu.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. The mystery infection wasn't quite as sinister as initially feared, but it still poses a serious threat to Peter's health. The real question is, will he be able to survive a whole week stuck in Medical? At least Dr Shepherd won't be around to complicate matters any more.
> 
> As you might have worked out 90% of the research for this story was packed into this chapter. I actually wrote the loose scene directions for the 'big reveal' before I started writing chater 1, so fleshing it out took some effort. I hope everyone managed to follow Bruce's explanation. Any questions or criticisms, please feel free to leave a comment and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. :)
> 
> Take care! xxx


	11. The Impatient Inpatient

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Clint’s brow was furrowed in concentration, his gaze shifting slowly between his hand and the opposition. Finally it came to rest on the tallest and burliest of the three, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he tilted his head to the side.

“Got any threes?”

Thor shook his head, flashing the archer a cheerful smile. “Nay. Go fishing.”

“It’s _‘go fish’_ , man,” Clint sighed for the third time that round, taking a card from the pile in the centre of the makeshift duct-taped table they were huddled around.

“Indeed. That is what I said, as you may recall,” Thor said neutrally, his attention focused on his own cards. “Lady Natasha, have you any sixes?”

Peter carefully hid a smile behind the rim of his mug so that the others wouldn’t see it, letting the steam curl up from the hot chocolate in fragrant wisps to tickle his nose. Although he ended up inhaling a mouthful of the beverage for his pains when Thor caught his gaze a moment later and winked at him conspiratorially (that _bastard)_ , startling an amused snort out of him. Peter had come to realise long ago that the Asgardian, while frequently faced with gaping culture differences and linguistic dissimilarities, was actually a lot quicker on the uptake than he led others to believe. The rest of the team knew, of course – Steve and Thor were often found discussing and comparing their personal wartime experiences, and would spend long hours replaying footage of recent battles fought by the Avengers (and by the members as individual fighters), using their tactical expertise to plan how best to improve the team’s efficiency. It was more of a running joke than a genuine language barrier that had Thor insisting on occasionally referring to Phil as ‘ _Son of Coul_ ’.

That being said, the Asgardian still wasn’t allowed to use the microwave without supervision, but it probably had more to do with Thor’s propensity to ‘experiment’ with volatile foodstuffs than anything else. None of them wanted a repeat of the watermelon incident.

Peter coughed to clear the drink from his airways, dropping his cards face-down on the table and covering his mouth, mindful of the fact that gunky stuff tended to emerge from the depths of his infected lung with alarming enthusiasm these days. A pair of hands gently pried the mug away from him so that the beverage didn’t slosh everywhere (Natasha’s, judging by their size), while Clint leaned over on his right to pat him firmly on the back.

Less than a minute later, Peter had managed to get his breathing back under control. His chest burned with a dull, hot ache, but thankfully he’d already coughed up half a lungful of phlegm less than an hour ago so these smaller, spluttering, choking coughs hadn’t triggered a more serious problem.

“Pete?” Clint prompted after a moment of silence, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.

The teenager took a steadying, wheezy breath, waiting until he was sure the coughing fit was definitely over and done with before straightening from his hunched position. He immediately found himself under the scrutiny of three sets of eyes, and forced a smile in an attempt to reassure them.

“I’m fine,” he promised, his voice strained from coughing. “Just went down the wrong way.”

Clint’s hand was still resting on his back, warm even through the fabric of his shirt. “You sure about that?”

“Perhaps you should put the mask back on,” Thor suggested, said item already poised at the ready in his hand, hissing faintly with the outflow of pressurised oxygen.

Their readiness and competency in handling his frequent coughing fits (especially the _bad_ ones that continued to genuinely scare the crap out of him) was comforting, but this had been a choking-induced episode rather than a response to his body’s pressing need to expel the excess fluid and fungal matter from his lung before he drowned in it. And while he usually _did_ require an extended blast of high-flow humidified oxygen and a ten-minute powernap after a more serious coughing fit, this one certainly hadn’t fallen into that category.

Besides, he’d fought tooth and nail with Jason and Bruce to persuade them to let him ditch the oxygen mask and stick with nasal prongs, and he wasn’t going to climb down from that particular rung on the ladder unless he really, _really_ needed to. He hated the fucking mask.

“Guys, I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted, picking up the cards again. “Stop looking at me like I’m about to keel over.”

Neither Clint nor Thor appeared particularly convinced, so Peter sent Natasha a beseeching look. The Russian agent tended to be the voice of reason in most situations, a characteristic that Peter had found particularly comforting over the past forty-eight hours in light of how _delicately_ the others had been treating him since his diagnosis (well, with the exception of Clint, whose temperament seemed to ricochet between his usual bordering-on-annoying personality and being unnecessarily defensive towards the medical staff on Peter’s behalf). The teenager didn’t mind their coddling, not _really_ – his bedridden state was frustrating, but it was hard to stay angry at the rest of the team when they were continually going out of their way to cheer him up and make him more comfortable – but he wished they’d stop sending him worried looks every time he so much as cleared his throat. If it wasn’t for Natasha’s completely unaffected attitude, he probably would’ve developed a complex by now.

The Russian agent held his gaze for a short moment, her expression giving nothing away, before returning her attention to her cards.

“Got any nines?”

“Yep,” Peter answered without a pause, sliding a four of clubs face-down across the table towards her.

The corner of the assassin’s mouth kicked upwards when she added the card to her hand, the barest hint of a reaction, but it was gone a moment later. It was always hard to tell with Tasha, but Peter could’ve sworn she was secretly _pleased_ at his underhanded ruse. She generally tended to approve of anything devious, provided the team weren’t trying to hide things from _her_.

Natasha held out a hand towards Clint briskly. “Give me your nine.”

The archer hugged the cards closer to his chest, finally letting his hand fall away from Peter’s shoulder. “And who says I’ve got any nines?”

“Your face says.” She gestured for the card again. “Don’t make me take it from you, Barton.”

Peter hid another smile behind his mug as he sipped at his drink again (a little more cautiously this time), feeling content and comfortable (or near enough) in a way he hadn’t since that horrible asthmatic wake-up call three nights ago. Today was going fairly well, so far. He’d even managed to stomach a little breakfast this morning – well, if by ‘breakfast’ you meant half a pop-tart, but at least he’d eaten _something_ – and aside from the brief powernap he’d needed to take after his latest prolonged coughing fit, his body had actually managed to function for an acceptable period of time without any major hiccups.

He still tended to zone out occasionally, and actual movement was proving to be problematic in terms of energy depletion, but it was still a marked improvement on how he’d felt two days ago before they’d started pumping him full of antifungal meds.

Hell, he’d even managed to slowly stagger his way over to the adjoining washroom earlier that morning to take a piss, albeit somewhat unsteadily on weak, wobbly legs and with Clint supporting him most of the way there and half-carrying him all the way back. Still, it had been worth the subsequent period of exhaustion just to have experienced a brief change in scenery; the same four walls were looking blander by the day, despite Clint’s attempts to _“liven the place up a bit”_ by sticky-taping drinking straws in odd places to spell out obscene swear words. There was still a particularly imaginative one slurred across the side of the crash-cart that Steve had yet to notice (and subsequently remove), but it really didn’t do much to make the room less mind-numbingly boring. Comparatively, going to the washroom had been like taking a vacation.

The medics were still pumping meds into him every four hours, an occasion Clint had taken to calling ‘ _Happy Sauna Hour’_ due to the significant rise in Peter’s body temperature that occurred as a result of the drug’s infusion process. It really wasn’t as fun as it sounded. Every four hours Peter would go from being a few degrees shy of ‘too cold’ (because his body’s unique physiology was still being fucked up by the infection and apparently his hypothalamus was paying the price) to _‘ugh, fuck, hothothot’_ , and would spend approximately the next sixty minutes tossing and turning uncomfortably in bed, trying to arrange himself in a position that would gain him optimum exposure to the powerful fans lined up beside his bed. A member of the team would always be there, too – usually Steve or Clint, who were able to offer sympathy and provide a suitable distraction simultaneously and with apparent ease – but there wasn’t much to be done other than to wait it out and make sure Peter didn’t dislodge the tubing as he became increasingly more agitated at the state of things.

But even his on-again/off-again fevers weren’t a huge deal in the long run, considering how effective the drugs were proving to be. His breathing had improved significantly over the past forty-eight hours, the tightness in his chest easing with every passing hour and the rasping, wheezing sound all but gone. The only real downside was that the meds were making him cough _more_ frequently than before, which wasn’t something he was particularly happy about.

He should’ve seen it coming, really. With the infection being so viciously eradicated through both intravenous and inhaled antifungal treatments, the colonisation in his lung had quickly begun to degrade. The subsequent collection of excess fluid and dead cells couldn’t just sit around forever, and whereas previously Bruce had been encouraging him _not_ to cough to prevent further damage, he was now under strict (but sympathetic) orders to cough as often as his body needed him to. Which seriously sucked, because coughing _hurt_. And, to make matters worse, apparently his body’s normal cellular regeneration process wasn’t able to keep up with the rate of tissue damage in his lungs, so it was likely that coughing would _continue_ to hurt for quite some time.  

Jason had assured him, however, that all his current symptoms would vanish within a fortnight. The medical team were assessing him on a six-hourly basis, adjusting the drug dosage and oxygen levels accordingly, and the new Chief Medical Officer (it was hard to refer to him as anything less, given the size of the flashing neon badge that Tony had smugly presented the doctor with in celebration of his promotion) was confident that Peter would be fit for discharge by the end of the week.

It was nice that they were bringing up words like ‘medical discharge’ and ‘home treatment’ in light of the initial severity of his condition (when words like ‘ _mortality rates’_ and _‘pulmonary oedema’_ had previously been the topic of choice), but even so, Saturday seemed a hell of a long way off. Given how vigorously time seemed to _drag_ when he was stuck in this place, he doubted he’d still be this calm after another three days of bedrest. He was going to lose his _mind._

“Hey.”

Peter stirred from his thoughts with a sharp intake of breath, blinking groggily, trying to clear the fuzzy feeling from his head. Clint’s hand was on his shoulder again, the archer’s brow creased faintly in concern.

“What?”

“You zoned out on us again, man,” Clint said, eyeing him closely. “And you’re really not looking so hot.”

“Way to boost a guy’s self-esteem,” the teenager deadpanned, scrubbing a hand down his face to banish the residual fatigue.

The archer smiled at the quip, but his concern was still evident. “You wanna take a break?”

Peter shook his head again, even though a bone-deep, aching weariness was creeping up on him steadily and he could already feel his body sagging deeper into the pillows behind his him. “Nah, m’okay.”

“Kiddo…”

“Dude, I’m _fine_ ,” Peter insisted. He wondered whether it was worth his time to start dotting up a tally board to count the number of occasions that he’d been using that phrase to reassure the team these past couple of days.

“Perhaps a brief period of respite would be wise,” Thor spoke, setting down his cards. “‘Tis past noon already. I wager your strength will return after you have eaten a hearty meal.”

Clint snapped his fingers and pointed the ‘guns’ created by thumb and index fingers towards the Asgardian, his grin a little too casual to come across as entirely authentic. “Awesome, yes, food. Good idea. I’m _starved_.”

Peter wasn’t. He wasn’t nauseous either, not in the same ‘something-hard-and-heavy-sitting-in-his-stomach’ way that he’d been feeling over the course of the past couple of days, but the idea of food just didn’t appeal to him at the moment. Half a pop-tart and a third of a mug of hot chocolate was enough to keep him full – which was fucking weird, considering how irrepressible his appetite usually was. Like Steve, his metabolism ran at a much faster rate than the average human’s, but unlike Steve his body also had to contend with the fact that he was a teenager and was therefore still _growing_. Bruce had estimated his daily baseline caloric intake to sit somewhere around six-thousand, and that wasn’t even factoring in the energy he burned off fighting crime as Spider Man. Seriously, he was _always_ hungry.

He knew he’d lost weight these past few days (hell, his body had to get the energy to heal itself from somewhere, right?), but since it looked like he’d be sitting on his ass for a couple of weeks yet while he recovered from the infection, he wasn’t overly concerned about having trouble gaining it again. As soon as his stomach felt up to it, he fully intended to pig out on junk food until he had curly fries coming out of his ears.

“What d’you fancy, kid?” Clint asked, standing up from the bed and stretching with a grunt. “Chinese? Mexican? Burger King? I’m taking the Sky-Cycle, so you’ve got your pick of any take-out joint in the city. I can be there and back in an hour, tops.”

Peter felt his eyebrows arch. “You’re taking one of the ‘Cycles out to get _lunch_?” he reiterated, because he was fairly sure that was high-up on Agent Coulson’s list of ‘ _What Not To Do With High-Tech SHIELD Resources’_. “You got a death wish or something?”

Clint waved away his concerns with a casual gesture. “Relax, I already cleared it with the Boss Man. He said I could file it under ‘extenuating circumstances’. Besides, we’re supposed to be making dramatic public appearances, remember? Can’t have the people of America falling into a panicked frenzy because we’ve all vanished from the public eye.” He paused, and added, “Again.”

The archer had a point. While the universe had managed to contain its shit fairly well these past few days, the Avengers’ absence had not gone entirely unnoticed. Camera crews had spotted the Quinjet leaving the Tower in the middle of the night when the team had first rushed Peter to the Helicarrier, and when the aircraft had subsequently failed to return it had taken less than twenty-four hours before the media had started to speculate about their apparent demise.

Tony, naturally, had found the whole thing downright hilarious, and he and Clint had spent the better part of the previous afternoon fabricating rumours on various social media sites. It had taken _‘#AvengersDisassembled’_ officially becoming the leading trend on Twitter before Director Fury had finally stomped his way into Peter’s isolation room with the expression of a man who’d truly reached the end of his tether, flat-out ordering Tony to _“put on the goddamn suit and go take some motherfucking selfies with your fans”_. Clint had nearly pissed himself laughing. Especially when Tony had later uploaded said ‘selfies’ onto Twitter with the caption ‘ _#notdead_.

“Peter.” Clint snapped his fingers in front of the teenager’s face, his brow creasing again. “Quit it; this whole ‘zombie stare’ thing is seriously starting to creep me out here, kid.”

“Sorry.” Peter scrubbed a hand over his face again. “Look, don’t worry about me. I’m not all that hungry anyway.”

Clint was already shrugging on his jacket, but leaned over to nudge Peter’s shoulder with a cajoling smile. “C’mon, kid. Room service! For a limited time only. You’d be crazy to pass up the opportunity. And it’d do you good to put some meat back on those bones before Goldilocks here gives you a hug and snaps you in two.”

“Pray, spare a thought for our archer’s fragile heart,” Thor beseeched with false gravity, patting Clint on the back. “I fear it would not survive such a tragedy.”

Peter shook his head, but he was smiling again. “I’m really not hungry, guys. Thanks anyway.”

“You need to eat something,” Natasha told him flatly, her gaze trained on the screen of her cell phone. “You’re scrawny enough as it is, Parker.”

The teenager pouted, feigning a look of betrayal. “Aw, c’mon, Widow. I thought you were on my side?”

“Sweetheart,” the redhead drawled, giving him an amused, pitying look, “I’m on whichever side keeps you alive the longest.”

“Geez, Tasha, don’t go all sappy on the kid,” Clint interjected, looking like he’d just swallowed something unpleasant. “You’ll put me off my lunch.”

Natasha flipped him the bird.

“Pizza!” Clint announced, ignoring the gesture. He slapped Peter on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him forwards a little. “You’re a pepperoni guy, right? Tell you what, I’ll just order a bunch of ‘em, whatever looks good. I’m sure Cap and Bruce’ll be up for a few slices.”

Peter still hadn’t convinced his appetite to come out of hiding, but he didn’t have the heart (or the energy) to argue the point further. “Sure,” he agreed with a brief, tired smile. “Pizza sounds good.”

“Pizza?” Steve had appeared in the doorway, dressed in casual clothes, his hair damp and sticking up at odd angles in a way that suggested he’d just finished scrubbing it dry after a shower. He had his cell phone pressed to one ear. “Who’s getting pizza?”

“Don’t sweat it, Margherita Man, I’ve already logged your order,” Clint reassured, grabbing his compact bow and quiver from the corner of the room, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he glanced back at the captain. “Who’s on the phone?”

“Tony,” Steve replied, then paused, tilting his head to the side as he listened. “Yeah, he’s about to head out. Sure. It’s where? _Tony._ ” With a fondly exasperated glance heavenwards, he pulled the phone away briefly, covering the ‘speaker’ with his other hand (the gesture was old-fashioned enough that Peter had to hide another smile behind the rim of his mug) as he glanced back towards Clint. “He says the Platinum card’s in the back pocket of your pants. He, uh, put it there this morning while you were in the shower.”

“He did _not_.” Clint’s hand snapped around to his behind, his eyes widening on impact. “Son of a bitch!”

“Clint says ‘thanks’,” Steve continued lightly, pressing the phone back against his ear. He grinned at the mechanic’s reply (Peter assumed it to be some witty, sarcastic remark about Clint’s ass, knowing Tony) and shook his head with another fond roll of his eyes. Then his gaze flickered over to meet Peter’s and his expression grew softer, warmer. “Yeah, he’s awake. How are you holding up, champ?”

The teenager gave him a tired grin and a thumbs-up. “Still breathing.”

“Peter.” Steve was clearly trying to look disapproving at his word choice, but the smile tugging at his lips belied the sentiment.

“To be fair, he’s not lying,” Clint chipped in, bracing one foot against the seat of his vacated chair to lace up his combat boots. “He _is_ still breathing.”

“Indeed,” Thor agreed, and while he wasn’t as subtle in his amusement as Clint, he managed to limit his humour to a telling twitch of his lips. “A crude but accurate summary of his current physical well-being.”

Peter tried not to look too smug. He probably failed.

Holding up a hand to surrender the point, his smile widening a little, Steve tilted the phone back towards his mouth. “He’s coerced the others into staging a mutiny, so I’m assuming he must be feeling better…I know, I’ll hang up my shield as soon as you’ve found a suitable replacement.” Another pause. “Thor? Yeah, he’s here. Sure, hang on.” He extended the device towards the taller, burlier blond. “Tony needs to talk to you about _Project 23_.”

Peter perked up at that, his fatigue slipping momentarily. _Project 23_ ; he’d heard the term banded about on numerous occasions over the past couple of days, but the team wouldn’t tell him _squat_. He knew that it was the primary reason behind Tony’s return to the Avenger’s Tower (after the billionaire had asked Peter no less than _three_ times if he was certain he’d be alright without him there), but the older man was knee-deep in a new project every other week, so this was nothing new. It was the secrecy that was so out of sorts, especially given that _everyone_ seemed to know about it except Peter.

He’d been hoping to eavesdrop on Thor’s conversation (for all the Asgardian’s tactical intelligence and battle experience, the art of subtlety still eluded him), but Natasha sent him a knowing look and stood gracefully to her feet, hooking her arm in the crook of Thor’s nearest elbow and escorting him from the room at a casual pace. Peter frowned at their retreating backs.

“I really don’t like surprises,” he tried, glancing between Clint and Steve. “Just so you know.”

“Well you’re gonna _love_ this one,” the archer insisted, reaching out to mess up his hair. “Believe me.”

Peter batted his hand away with a strangled yelp. “Dude, not the _hair_.”

Clint snorted and shoved at him (although it was decidedly lacking in strength compared to their usual roughhousing) before heading for the door. “Take a nap, Rapunzal,” he advised. “I’ll wake you up for pizza.”

Peter would have replied with something rude and sarcastic, but Steve was watching him with a knowing look. So instead he sent the captain an innocent smile and pointed towards the crash cart, where a particularly imaginative expletive was still slurred across the side in sticky-taped drinking straws.

“Hey, look at that - Clint left you a present, Cap.”

He tried not to laugh at the sound of the archer’s rapidly retreating footsteps.

 

 

 

o~O~o

 

 

 

Given the time restriction, Tony had decided to forego another cup of coffee in favour of installing the last few square metres of impact-sensor plating. He had professionals coming in tomorrow to lay down the flooring (sure, he could’ve done it himself – mixing the asphalt-based compound wasn’t exactly rocket science – but he wanted it to be _perfect)_ and he was already two hours behind schedule. In hindsight, he should’ve roped Thor into it from the start. The skate park had started coming along in leaps and bounds since the Asgardian had taken over the ‘moving and handling’ portion of the work yesterday afternoon.

Another hour, he decided. Another hour and he’d take a coffee break.

“Peter will be most pleased,” Thor commented during a brief pause between the classic rock songs on Tony’s playlist. The taller man stood with his hand on his hips, surveying their progress. “You aim to have it finished upon his return?”

“Yep.” Tony set down his drill and swiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “That’s the plan, anyway.”

The Asgardian nodded, hefting a section of the u-curve ramp and carrying it effortlessly across to him. “Where do you intend to place this?”

Tony gestured with his tool towards the far side of the expansive floor. “Right over there, pal. See those big red X’s? You need to stick that piece on the left, facing me. And its twin,” he gestured back towards the other half of the ramp, “needs to sit opposite on the other X.”

Leaving Thor to his assigned task, the engineer returned his attention to the section of the sensor relay that ran beneath the floor plating. In a lot of ways, the technical part of this project was actually the easiest element – Jarvis already had the necessary sub-routines installed to monitor the physical activity on most of the lower floors (a necessary precaution, given that his cybernetic creations had a penchant for mischief when left unsupervised), so laying down additional sensor plates and wiring them directly into the AI’s security matrix had been simple enough. It was the physical design of the skate park itself that had been giving him grief.

For all his ‘dare devil’ attitude and attempted rebellion as a teenager (mostly an effort to get his father to finally put his foot down about _something)_ , Tony had never tried his hand at skateboarding. Probably because a wooden board with wheels on it had seemed too primitive to a kid born and raised in a fully computerised mansion. Which meant that he’d started this project completely blind, with little insight into the practicalities of constructing an interesting and challenging skate park. He’d done extensive research into the subject, mostly during those first twenty-four hours prior to Peter’s diagnosis (it had served as a welcome distraction from the gravity of the situation), but even Google wasn't an adequate substitute for genuine first-hand experience.

Admittedly, calling Tony Hawk might have been overkill, but the man had been surprisingly forthcoming about the Do’s and Don’ts of skate park design, and had given Tony a list of professionals to contact regarding specific technicalities like ramp height and transition length. It had mostly been smooth sailing after that. He’d found a reliable company who could supply him with the necessary materials and schematics and had started work the next morning. Two days later and it was looking pretty damn good, even if he did say so himself.

 _“Sir,”_ Jarvis spoke, automatically turning down the volume on _Painted Black_. _“You have an incoming call from Peter Parker.”_

Tony stood, tossing the screwdriver back into his toolkit and walking over to where he’d left his earpiece balanced on the end of the grinding rail. “Patch him through, Jarvis.” He inserted the device and tapped it twice. “Hey, Parker. How’s life as a mushroom?”

 _“Boring,”_ came Peter’s immediate reply. _“Seriously, Tony, you gotta spring me outta here. I’m_ _dying_ _.”_

“Which is exactly why you need to stay put,” Tony pointed out, glancing over to where Thor was inching the second half of the u-curve ramp into place. He gave the Asgardian a thumbs-up. “Besides, the whole _Prison Break_ thing really isn’t your style, kid. Gonna smudge up that squeaky-clean record of yours.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Peter began, a whining protest that brought a grin to the mechanic’s face. _“C’mon, man…”_

“Peter,” he responded in a similar tone. “Save it, kid. I’m not smuggling you out of Medical.”

_“But-”_

 “For a whole _host_ of reasons,” Tony ploughed on. “Firstly, you’re too big to fit into my man-purse, so the actual act of smuggling would be an impractical scheme; I’ve got a reputation to uphold here, can’t allow my name to be associated with failed escape attempts. Secondly, your aunt entrusted us with your safety and none of the team, maybe with the exception of Bruce, knows what the hell we’re doing when it comes to medical shit. We’d probably break you or something, and the political backlash from that would be horrendous. We can’t just go around breaking Avengers, seriously, why did you even bother suggesting it?”

Peter made a choked, squeaking noise, like he was trying to swallow a laugh but hadn’t quite managed it. Tony grinned and went on:

“Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, Steve wouldn’t approve, and we’d both have to live with the crushing knowledge that we’d disappointed Captain America.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, even though Peter couldn’t see him. “C’mon, kid, it’s really not worth the guilt. You know how he gets that _Look_.”

 _“Okay, okay,”_ Peter conceded, and although his tone was probably supposed to sound reluctantly resigned, his smile was audible. _“You’ve made your point.”_

“Good.” Tony returned to his previous spot next to the uncovered sensor relay and resumed interconnecting the residual power nodes. “How’re you feelin’, anyway?”

There came a short, sharp sigh from the other end of the line. _“Better, I guess. I’ve managed to go a whole day without puking, so that’s something. And I’ve stopped coughing up blood.”_

“Yeah?” Tony wondered if the surge of relief at the news was as audible to Peter as it was to his own ears. “Good. That’s…that’s good.”

There was a brief pause. _“So maybe I’m well enough to come home, right?”_

He smiled and shook his head. “Nice try.”

_“But Tony…”_

“Saturday, Peter,” the mechanic told him flatly. “The earliest I’m springing you out of there is Saturday. And that’s _provided_ you keep getting better. Bruce thinks they’ll be able to stop the IV meds on Friday night. And since he’s the only one of us who’s even remotely qualified to look after your medical needs, he gets the final say.”

Peter groaned; a wordless, frustrated sound. _“But I’m going stir crazy stuck in here.”_

Tony sighed quietly. “I know, kid. Believe me, I do – Medical’s not exactly my favourite place, either. And I swear I’ll bust you outta there as soon as it’s safe to bring you home. But I’d rather you were stuck in bed, bored out of your mind than stuck here in the Tower without the medical input you need.” He scooted back a couple of inches to replace the sensor pad over the open circuitry, reaching for his power-tool to screw it in place. “Besides, I thought the others were supposed to be keeping you entertained?”

 _“Cap was here a little while ago,”_ Peter admitted. _“But Thor broke something in the staffroom and the power went out. I think Steve’s gone to negotiate peace before the nurses put in another complaint to Director Fury.”_

“Sounds about right. Hold on, gimme a sec.” He braced his hand on the panel to keep it still and quickly drilled the screws back in place.

 _“What are you working on?”_ Peter asked, a little _too_ innocently, once the noise of the drill had subsided.

“Nothing you need to know about,” Tony replied blandly.

_“Is it Project 23?”_

“What’s that? Never heard of it.”

_“It is, isn't it? So there’s mechanics involved in it somehow. Are you building me a suit?”_

Smiling, Tony tossed the tool back into his kit and stood to his feet, brushing off his palms against his jeans. “We’ve already been down this route, kid. My lips are sealed.”

_“I really don’t like surprises.”_

Tony snorted. “Liar.”

 _“What if you get the colour scheme wrong and I totally hate it?”_ Peter tried.

“That’s why I passed the buck to Steve. Nobody hates Steve’s work.” The mechanic glanced down at his watch and winced. “Listen, kiddo, I gotta finish things up here if I want to be with you at a reasonable time for dinner. I called in a favour with _Sambuca_ , that awesome Italian restaurant near Central Park; ordered us a bunch of stuff to go. Me an’ Thor can pick it up on our way back to you.”

There was another brief pause, then a quiet, hopeful, _“Meatballs?”_

Tony grinned. “Hell yeah. And Rigatoni Primavera, baked Ziti…all the good stuff.” He tapped the touchscreen on the access panel near the elevator to bring up the holographic 3D specs of the finished floor design. “You gonna stay out of trouble ‘til we get back?”

 _“Tony,”_ Peter protested. _“Dude. I’m not_ _five_ _.”_

“Says the grumpy kid who’s spent the last fifteen minutes whining to me about being bored.”

 _“I was not_ _-”_

“Bye, Peter,” Tony called, tapping his earpiece to end the call.

He would’ve been quite happy to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to the teenager lament his woes about being cooped up in Medical – it was nice just to hear him talk again so freely without his throat sounding raw from coughing, and with that horrible heart-clenching wheeze interspersing every other sentence – but he had a helluva lot to get finished before the professionals came tomorrow morning, and he wanted to spend the night on the Helicarrier with the rest of the team (because what wasn’t there to love about giant sleepovers on a floating command base?) and to check up on Peter with his own eyes rather than relying on Bruce and Steve’s updates (however frequent and thorough those had proven to be).

Sighing, he removed the earpiece and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Jarvis, give me a two-hour countdown. You know I work better under pressure.”

_“Indeed, Sir. However, I feel compelled to remind you that the likelihood of you injuring yourself also increases by eighty-six percent when you activate Countdown Procedures.”_

“Jarvis?”

_“Sir?”_

“Mute.”

 

 

o~O~o

 

 

 

Assuming that the dry spell would last until the end of the week had been wishful thinking.

It was late evening when the alarms sounded. Peter had been floating on the brink of sleep, his eyes at half-mast as he lay slumped in bed, his head resting comfortably against the arm that Tony had slung around his shoulders. His chest was still burning dully with the residual ache of the coughing fit he’d suffered just over an hour ago, one that had startled him awake from a previously comfortable sleep. Bugs Bunny’s Brooklyn/Bronx drawl was still playing faintly in the background, Tony having rigged one of the overhead monitors to play Netflix shows, and the cartoons had served as a welcoming distraction from the pain in his chest over the course of the past hour. They were doing a good job of putting him to sleep, too. Or at least they had been, before deafening klaxons began to blare loudly from the speakers in the ceiling.

Peter jolted from his doze with a flinch, clamping his hands over his ears in an attempt to block out the sound. Tony was already swinging his legs down from the bed and grabbing his phone from the nearby table.

“What in the world…?”

The alarms silenced after ten seconds, but the lights in the corridor outside Peter’s room were still flashing red, and seriously, what was this, the _Starship_ _Enterprise?_

Steve came barrelling into the room a moment later, still dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, having sprung out of bed only moments before judging by the state of his hair. His tense posture and battle-ready stance relaxed marginally when his gaze flickered between the two of them, but his expression remained grim.

“The hell’s going on?” Tony asked, still tapping away frantically on his phone.

“I’m not sure,” Steve answered. “But it’s obviously serious enough to warrant a Priority Red alert. It’s probably best if you suit up.”

Tony nodded briskly, but his gaze flitted back to Peter for a brief moment before he turned and hurried from the room. The teenager caught Steve’s eye and leaned forwards a little, his brow creased.

“Is the Helicarrier under attack?”

“I don’t think so,” Steve reassured. “The alarms wouldn’t have-”

“Cap!” Clint appeared in the doorway behind the blond, composed and professional despite being a little out of breath. He handed the vibranium shield to its owner and slipped past him to grab his boots from their perch on top of the filing cabinet, his Kevlar-enforced Hawkeye jacket unzipped to reveal his sleep-shirt underneath. “We need to Assemble - there’s some sort of incursion eighty miles south of our current position. SHIELD’s got ground teams trying to contain the problem, but they won’t be able to hold them for long. Flight control’s prepping the Quinjet. Here: catch.”

Steve caught the earpiece, fitting it in place with practiced ease. “Wheel’s up in five. Thor, Tony, do you copy? Make a headstart, we’ll catch up as soon as we’re airborne.”

Peter swung his legs out of bed, adrenaline surging and banishing his previous exhaustion, but Clint’s hand caught his shoulder before his feet could so much as touch the ground.

“Hey, whoa, where d’you think you’re going?”

“I can help,” the teenager insisted, although his brain was already providing him with a lengthy list about just how _un_ helpful he was going to be in his current state of health.

Clint gave him an incredulous look. “You hit your head or something?”

“Dude, c’mon, I’m not just gonna sit here and watch _Loony Toons_ while the rest of you jet off to fight an alien invasion,” Peter complained.

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Steve informed him calmly, factually, but with a hint of Captain America firmness to it that brooked no argument. “You’re in no fit state to leave this room, let alone suit up for battle. I’m sorry; you need to sit this one out, sport.”

“But Cap,” the younger man tried, and hated how the rough, hoarse quality of his voice made it sound closer to a whine than anything else.

The captain held up a hand to forestall the argument, his expression firm. “The answer’s no, son. This isn’t up for discussion.”

Against his better judgement, the teenager persisted anyway. “But I can _help!”_

“ _Enough_ , Peter,” Steve snapped, his face stern and his voice growing hard. “You’re staying _here_. That’s an order. And if I hear that you’ve made any attempt to join the mission, I will _bench_ you for a month, so help me God. Is that understood?”

Peter stared at him, a little wide-eyed. This was Captain America. This was a man who’d been to war and led hundreds of men into battle. And apparently this was what happened when you _pissed him off_. The teenager had seen him argue with Tony before at least half a dozen times, but he’d never been on the receiving end of it himself. Steve had been firm with him in the past, sure, but not like this. And not when Peter’s defences were already weakened by illness and fatigue and frustration.

Fuck. Fuck, no. He was _not_ going to cry. He was eighteen years old, goddammit.

His eyes felt hot, but he kept his emotions in check through sheer force of will, swallowing firmly past the painful lump in his throat.

“Understood, sir.”

Something in Steve’s expression shifted, softened, and Peter could have sworn he saw a brief flicker of regret in the man’s eyes. But he straightened a moment later, gave Peter a brisk nod, and strode from the room swiftly, the sound of his footsteps fading as he moved further down the corridor.

Clint’s hand hadn’t lifted from his shoulder, and in the seconds of silence that followed the captain’s departure, it slid across to squeeze the back of Peter’s neck gently.

“Don’t take it personally, kid,” the archer murmured, his tone sympathetic. “He’s just worried about you.”

Peter nodded, his throat still too tight to speak just yet, and watched dejectedly as Clint finished lacing up his boots and stood up to leave. The archer paused at the last moment, however, peering down to meet the teenager’s gaze briefly. Then he tipped his head back and glanced heavenwards with a resigned sigh.

“God, I’m such a sap.”

He shoved a hand into his pocket, reaching down with the other to grab one of Peter’s, pressing something small and hard into his palm.

“If Cap finds out about this, I’m dead,” he spoke, by way of a warning. “So keep it on the hush-hush. Channel three’s the secure line, so you’ll be able to hear Phil and all of the Avengers, but not SHIELD. And I’m giving it to you on the condition that you _don’t leave this room_. Got it?”

Peter closed his hand tightly around the earpiece and nodded quickly. Clint winked at him, pausing just long enough to mess up Peter’s hair before heading for the exit.

“And for _god’s sake_ , keep the mic on mute,” the archer called over his shoulder. “The last thing we need is you hacking up a lung in the background.”

The teenager grinned, donning the earpiece carefully and grabbing his cell phone from the nightstand. Watching the live news report certainly wouldn’t give him as accurate a picture as he would’ve liked, but at least it was something. Better than listening to the disjointed commentary over the earpiece and allowing his imagination to run wild.

He leaned further over the side of the bed to grab the end of the rolling table that housed a jug of iced water and a bag of fruit candies. He had a feeling he’d need them. It was going to be a long night.

 

 

 

o~O~o

 

 

 

When Peter next awoke, the voices in his ear were gone, and there were hands gently easing him back down against the pillows and sliding the cell phone from his lax grip. His Spidey senses weren't tingling at all, so he assumed it was a Friendly rather than a Hydra goon - although he probably could've guessed that from the careful manner in which the intruder was tucking him into bed.

He pried heavy, itchy eyelids open to squint at the man through the dim, blue-tinted haze of the room, and immediately felt himself jolt awake a little more.

“Cap?”

“Shh,” the older man hushed gently, pulling the blankets up to cover him. “It’s alright. Go back to sleep, son.”

Peter shook his head a little, his consciousness battling against the tempting lull of sleep, and snaked a hand out from beneath the blankets to grab Steve’s wrist lightly. The fabric under his fingers was firm and unyielding, and Peter realised the captain had yet to change out of his uniform. He’d stripped off his helmet and gloves – both had been deposited on the bedside cabinet next to Leonardo da Fishy – and Peter wagered the glint in the corner of his eyes was Steve’s shield propped up against the equipment cabinet, but aside from that he was in full Captain America regalia, complete with sooty smudges and fabric tears and…holy shit, was that _blood?_

“Clint said nobody got hurt,” he protested, still gripping Steve’s wrist as he eyed the gash near the man’s shoulder.

“Clint said, huh?” Steve echoed, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “And how would you know what Clint said?”

“I…uh…” _Oh, shit._

Steve gave him a mild, assessing look, letting him squirm for a moment before holding up his other hand, the sleek black earpiece (that he’d obviously removed from Peter’s person prior to waking him) pinched between thumb and forefinger.

Peter had always been a terrible liar. No way in hell was he even going to _try_ and blag his way out of this one.

He winced, looking sheepish. “Sorry.”

“Well,” Steve mused, setting the gadget aside and reaching behind him to pull up a chair without breaking Peter’s hold on his wrist. “ _Technically_ you didn’t go against my orders, so I can’t really fault you for this one, can I?”

Peter rolled onto his side to face him better, feeling hope blossom in his chest. “Uh…no?”

“No,” Steve agreed, leaning forwards a little to brace his arms on the bed. He watched Peter quietly for a moment, his expression reserved, before sighing and moving to cover the teenager’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry I shouted at you earlier.”

While their previous disagreement had certainly weighed heavily on the younger man’s mind, Peter hadn’t expected an _apology_ for what had been a completely acceptable response to his own stubborn-headed idiocy. Admittedly, he’d fumed over the captain’s dismissal for at least an hour after the team had left, but it hadn’t taken long for the rational portion of his brain to give his wounded pride a good kick. He’d been upset at being scolded by someone he looked up to, frustrated at his own bed-bound state and bitter over the reality of his team abandoning him to go fight bad guys (all three sentiments intensified and exaggerated by the stress and exhaustion of the past few days). But he’d known as well as anybody else that Steve’s decision had been for his own benefit, and the rest of the team’s. He could still barely make it to the bathroom and back again without getting tired, what use would he have been on a battlefield?

He gave a self-conscious, one-shouldered shrug. “I was being a stubborn idiot.”

“True, you were,” Steve acknowledged mildly, a smile twitching at his lips again. “But I still shouldn’t have snapped. I remember what it was like to be the only guy left behind. It sucks, right?”

Peter felt a smile tug at the corner of his own mouth. “Right.”

Steve propped his chin up on his fist and studied him with a quiet, calm gaze. “To be fair, you’re a lot better at following orders than I ever was.”

The teenager sniffed a grin, blinking tiredly. “Tell me about the mission?” he asked, fatigue making the words slur a little.

“Not tonight,” Steve denied gently, resting a hand in his hair briefly. “You’ve been awake long enough already.”

“Yeah? Whose fault issat?” he mumbled, then wondered what the hell he was talking about.

“Tony’s, obviously,” the captain replied, and Peter could tell by the slight tremor in his voice that he was trying not to laugh.

“Mm,” Peter conceded sleepily.

He was hovering on the edge again, his eyes glued firmly shut but his consciousness clinging to the cliff-edge resolutely. Knowing exactly which issue was keeping him awake, he pried one eyelid open again to peer at the older man. Steve was still watching him quietly with a tender, amused expression.

“…Cap?”

“Mm?”

“Would you really have benched me for a month?” Peter queried.

Steve’s lips twitched into another smile. “Maybe not a whole month,” he admitted quietly. “A few weeks, probably. Two at least.” He gave an easy shrug. “Definitely a full week. And no TV.”

Peter felt himself give a lazy, sleepy smile. “You’re pretty scary when you go all Captain American-y, y’know,” he mumbled. “Knew you were an old softy underneath it all.”

Gentle fingers brushed his fringe back from his forehead. “This ‘old softy’ can still bench you for a month if that’s what you really want.”

“Nah, s’okay,” Peter mumbled. “I’ll survive the disappointment.”

Steve laughed quietly; a breathy, whispering sound that was almost inaudible.

“Peter?”

“Ungh?”

“Go to sleep, son.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I end up googling the weirdest crap for this story. Highlights of this chapter's research were 'how do I build a skate park?', 'what Italian food tastes good?' and 'what is Bugs Bunny's accent?'. I feel like my search engine is judging me now. 
> 
> Only one chapter (epilogue) left! Gosh, I'm going to miss writing this story. It's a good thing there are another six planned. :P
> 
> Thanks for reading! I love you all <3 xxxx


	12. Epilogue: There's No Place Like Home

 

The flight back to the Tower was surprisingly pleasant, considering how much he usually loathed air travel. Peter sat with his eyes glued to the expansive view beyond the reinforced glass of the cockpit, several days’ worth of tension (the accumulation of endless hours of frustration at his confinement in Medical) seeping from his muscles as they neared New York. It was gratifying to be able to stare at something other than the same bland four walls of his isolation room – the Medbay hadn’t even had frickin’ windows, for God’s sake – although he’d be making good use of Clint’s sunglasses once they reached the landing pad on the roof of the Tower; he still had a niggling headache behind his eyes, and his retinas weren’t ready to contend with the mid-June sunshine just yet.

He was so relieved to be free of his confinement (albeit it temporarily before the team grounded him to the Tower for another week in order to fully recuperate) that he hadn’t even thought to voice a protest at the _Ensure Plus_ shake Bruce had forced on him just before they’d set off from the Helicarrier. Even though the drink tasted _foul_ and normally Peter would’ve happily tossed it into the Atlantic rather than forcing it down.

He took another careful sip and tried not to pull a face. He knew they were a necessary evil; that until he regained his normal appetite, he’d need to keep supplementing his pathetically small meals with high-calorie drinks and protein bars. He couldn’t afford to lose any more weight. The SHIELD medical team had threatened to keep him in for another few days on that basis alone, but thankfully Bruce had managed to convince them that he and the rest of the team were perfectly capable of monitoring Peter’s dietary intake without their assistance. The shakes had been a compromise – it had either been that, or another forty-eight hours stuck in isolation, dying of boredom.

It hadn’t been a difficult choice.

“If the wind blows, it’ll stick that way,” Steve warned from his seat nearby, one arm wrapped around the modified helmet-tank in his lap to keep it from sliding off. That wasn’t something you saw every day; Captain America hugging a goldfish. Although _Leonardo da Fishy_ remained calmly oblivious as to whose patriotic abdominal muscles he was pressed against.

Peter lowered the _Ensure Plus_ bottle and tried to smooth out his grimace (it was a genuine struggle; the calorie shakes were seriously gross). “You try drinking this stuff,” he protested, but it lacked any real heat, “see if _you_ can keep a straight face.”

Steve laughed and shook his head. “I’m sure I’ve tasted worse. Bet your aunt never made you swallow cod-liver oil every other night. If you’re curious, I’m sure I could find a chemist that’ll sell me a bottle?”

“No, that’s okay,” Peter was quick to assure. “I’ll just stick with my yummy, yummy shake, thanks.” He gave the bottle another dubious glance, then turned to give Bruce a morose look. “How many of these am I gonna have to take, anyway?”

Bruce gave him a grim, sympathetic smile. “Three or four a day, depending on how well you manage meals and snacks.”

Peter took another, larger gulp of the thick, overly sweet drink (better to get it down as quickly as possible rather than prolonging the torture), and mulled the words over carefully. Then he tilted his head a little to one side.

“So if I ate, like, a whole cheesecake or something…?”

“Then I guess you could skip one of your shakes,” Bruce allowed, fiddling with the settings on the Quinjet’s inbuilt cardiac monitor. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. I don’t think your body’s ready for that kind of sugar overload after the week it’s had.”

The teenager shrugged, wrinkling his nose at another swig of the beverage. “I’d take a cheesecake over _this_ stuff any day.”

Steve gave him a _look_. “Peter. You’re not eating a whole cheesecake on your own, you’ll be sick.”

The captain had a point. He’d barely even managed half of his pudding cup at dinner last night before the familiar curl of nausea had forced him to set the rest of it aside with a grimace. The likelihood of him being able to eat a whole slice of dessert, let alone the entire cheesecake, was pretty poor. But a guy could dream, right?

“Buckle up, boys,” Natasha called from the co-pilot’s seat as Clint’s hand came up to tap at the overhead control panel, lowering the landing gear. “We’re almost home.”

Bracing himself, Peter took a steeling breath and downed the rest of the _Ensure Plus_ shake in several large, awful gulps, forcing himself to swallow the last of it before setting the empty bottle aside on the floor of the Quinjet and strapping himself in.

The Avengers Tower loomed closer, hundreds of windows gleaming in the midday sun, and Peter had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

 

 

 

 

**o~O~o**

 

 

 

 

 _“Welcome back, Captain Rogers, Doctor Banner,”_ Jarvis greeted them as soon as they stepped into the elevator from the landing pad. _“Mr Parker, my scans indicate that your respiratory rate and cardiac output are now functioning within normal parameters. I trust you are feeling better?”_

“Much better, thanks J,” Peter said with a brief smile towards the camera on the ceiling, squinting a little against the glare of the overhead lighting. Steve didn’t miss his wince, nor the way the teenager fumbled for the sunglasses in the front pocket of his hoody.

“Jarvis, think you could turn down the lights a little?” he prompted, sliding his hand from Peter’s shoulder to rest on the back of the boy’s neck instead, squeezing the tensing muscles there.

  _“Of course, Captain.”_

The lighting dimmed significantly and Peter released a long, weary sigh of relief, shoving the shades back into his pocket again and sending Steve a grateful look. “Thanks, Cap.”

_“Where to, gentlemen?”_

Bruce glanced up from his phone, adjusting his grip on the strap of the portable oxygen cylinder that he’d slung over one shoulder. “The infirmary, please. And could you let the others know we’re back? Thanks.”

_“My pleasure, doctor. Sir will be most pleased to hear of your safe return.”_

“Where is he, anyway?” Steve asked, keeping his arm around Peter as the elevator whirred into motion and began a rapid descent.

_“Mr Stark and Thor are currently putting the finishing touches on Project 23.”_

Peter perked up at that, a grin flitting across his face briefly before being eclipsed by an oh-so-innocent expression that Steve had become all too familiar with over the course of the past six months.

“Jarvis? What’s Project 23?”

_“Unfortunately, Mr Parker, you lack the necessary authorisation codes to access that information.”_

Steve sent him an amused look. “Nice try, son.”

The teenager shrugged resignedly. “Ah well. It was worth a shot.” He paused briefly before glancing at Bruce. “Hey, do we have to go to the infirmary right away? I wanna say ‘hi’ to the bots first. It won’t take long, I promise.”

The elevator slowed to a halt, the doors sliding open to reveal the Tower’s tech-heavy medical floor, and Steve didn’t miss the way that Peter subconsciously leaned further away from it. Bruce stepped out of the elevator, smiling back at them.

“Fifteen minutes,” he granted, sliding his phone back into his top pocket. “Then I want you back here for your check-up. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Peter beamed and slapped his hand with excessive enthusiasm against the button that would close the doors again. “Thanks, Doc!”

The kid’s grin was infectious, and Steve found himself returning it. “You know you’re just prolonging the inevitable, right?”

“I know, I know.” Peter scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed. “I just wanted another few minutes of freedom before I got stuck in another medical facility. Jarvis? The workshop, please.”

Steve sent him a curious glance. Surely Peter didn’t think that they intended to isolate him to the infirmary? The whole point of them bringing him home was that he’d be able to continue his recuperation from the comfort and familiarity of his own apartment. Sure, they’d be checking up on him a lot more closely, and one of them would be sleeping in the spare bedroom along the hallway from the teenager for the first few nights at least, but they certainly weren’t going to confine him to the medical floor.

“You won’t have to stay there, you know,” he said aloud, seeking to clarify the point. “It’s just a check-up. Bruce is only doing it in the infirmary because the equipment’s already there.”

Peter’s head snapped sharply to the left to look at him, eyes wide. “You mean I don’t have to stay in bed? I can, like, move around the Tower and stuff?”

“You’ll need to take it easy for the first few days,” Steve reminded him gently. “But yes, you’re free to roam the Tower as much as you’re able to.” He held up a hand to forestall any immediate celebration and added, a little more firmly, “That being said, you’re also under orders to avoid physical exertion for at least another week, so consider yourself grounded if you so much as _think_ about setting foot in the gym.”  

The teenager grinned, opening his mouth to reply, but at that moment the elevator doors slid open and a mechanical arm shot through the widening gap, snagging Peter by the front of his hoodie and tugging almost hard enough to topple him.

 _“Dummy, disengage at once and allow Mr Parker to exit the elevator,”_ Jarvis scolded.

“No, it’s alright,” Peter said around a laugh, one hand coming up to rest over the claw that still fisted his top and grinning into the camera along the metal arm. “Hey, buddy. Didja miss me?”

Dummy whirred the affirmative, tugging again, and Peter stumbled along behind him with another laugh as he was led across the workshop floor towards the couch on the far side of the room. You and Butterfingers rolled out of their charging stations with greeting whirs of their own, and Steve watched from the sidelines with a smile as the teenager suddenly found himself the centre of attention, poked and nudged and petted by three mechanical claws.

“Sorry I’ve been away so long,” Peter was saying, one arm looped casually around Dummy’s support strut as the bot made several unsuccessful attempts to tug his hood up over the teen’s head. “Came down with a nasty chest infection, had to spend a few days in bed.”

Butterfingers prodded Peter’s midriff and whirred again; a low, curious sound. Peter passed a hand over the bot’s claw, arching an eyebrow. “What?”

After a moment of silence, You’s arm lowered alongside the larger bot’s, the ‘eye’ in the centre of its claw whirring as the focus shifted, before lifting again to stare directly into Peter’s face. The teenager blinked under the sudden scrutiny, shooting Steve a puzzled sideways glance. The soldier, who assumed he’d been subjected to all of the bots’ curiosities, could only shrug by way of an answer.

“What’s gotten into you guys, huh?” Peter murmured, lifting his arm obligingly when Dummy’s claw nudged it up to poke at his side, whirring in what almost sounded like disgruntlement. “You mad at me or something?”

 _“I believe they are merely perplexed by your altered physical state, Mr Parker,”_ Jarvis supplied softly. _“They reacted in a similar fashion when Mr Stark first returned from captivity.”_

“Oh.” The teenager lowered his arm, gently pushing the claws away. “I lost weight because I was sick, guys. Don’t worry, it happens. I’ll be back to normal in a couple of weeks.” He touched Dummy’s claw when it inched closer again. “Jarvis, do they understand?”

A brief pause, then, _“To a certain extent, yes. They are…unsatisfied that the error cannot be rectified immediately, but they have stopped asking questions.”_

“Good.” Peter smiled and fist-bumped each bot’s claw in turn. “Hey Dummy, is the fridge stocked? I’m kinda thirsty.”

The bot immediately straightened, whirring enthusiastically, and spun around on the spot to head back across the workshop towards the smoothie-making station that Tony had built in the far corner of the room, away from the more delicate creations on the main ‘shop floor. Steve smiled, moving to sit down on the couch beside the teenager and arching an eyebrow when Peter looked at him.

“Pretty sure you’re going to go over that fifteen-minute mark, sport.”

“Maybe. But _smoothies_ , Cap.” Peter gave an easy shrug and a winning smile. “Besides, I’ll be eating stuff – Bruce can’t rat me out for that.”

 

 

 

 

**o~O~o**

 

 

 

 

“Few inches higher, buddy…yeah that’s gr- whoa, whoa, Jesus, _stop!”_

Tony reached down to blindly swat at the Asgardian upon whose shoulders he was precariously perched, going near cross-eyed at the alarming proximity between his nose and the live electrical circuitry dangling down from the open panel in the ceiling.

“A step too high, perhaps,” Thor mused beneath him, and descended a rung on the ladder.

Exhaling a sigh of relief, Tony raised his soldering tools again. “Not all of us are impervious to the effects of high-voltage electricity like you are, pal. And if the media found out that Tony Stark had fried his brains doing the technical equivalent of changing a lightbulb, I’d never live it down.”

“Pardon my candour, friend,” the Asgardian spoke, and his smile was audible, “but had your brains truly been ‘fried’, I doubt you would remain amongst the living at all.”

“Oh my god, Thor,” Tony groaned, “that’s like the _fifth_ Dad joke you’ve made this afternoon. You’re killing me here.”

“You require medical assistance?” Thor reiterated, because he was an ass who enjoyed taking ‘ _unnecessarily dramatic Midgardian phrases’_ as literal statements of fact. “Perhaps I ought to contact a physician?”

“You know, L'Oréal, it really isn’t smart to antagonise a guy when he’s holding a soldering iron.”

“Indeed. But you’re worth it.”

_“Argh!”_

“Let me guess,” came an amused voice from the far side of the expansive room. “This isn’t how it looks?”

Tony deactivated his tools and pushed his goggles up out of the way, craning his neck to shoot a toothy grin at Steve where the captain stood in the entranceway to the stairwell, a smile on his face and both arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Oh no,” the mechanic contradicted. “It’s _exactly_ how it looks. I’m taking advantage of Thor’s superior height and strength and the size of his ego because I was too lazy to find a bigger step-ladder.”

Thor gave a short, amused huff. “A true talent, friend, that you can weave both complement and insult into a single sentence.”

Tony gave the golden head a consoling pat. “It only means I love you, buddy.” He tossed his tools haphazardly towards the bag a few feet away from the ladder and reached up to snap the ceiling panel back in place. “All done. Think you can put me down without dropping me?”

“Debatable,” Thor replied, in a tone that was deceptively bland (so that Tony genuinely couldn’t figure out whether he was being honest or sarcastic – he often had this problem with Thor).

“Just let go,” Steve suggested calmly, coming to stand at the foot of the ladder. “I’ll catch you.”

Tony gave the man an incredulous look. “What is this, some warped trust-building exercise? Like hell I’m letting you catch me, Rogers, I’m not a football. Thor, put me down.”

“Regrettably, I cannot,” the Asgardian lamented with false gravity. “Our good captain barricades the way.” Thor swivelled his upper body around to glance down at Steve, and Tony grabbed onto the man’s head with a yelp when the movement threatened to unseat him from the blond giant’s shoulders. “Your orders, Captain?”

Steve grinned, and Tony let go of Thor in favour of pointing a warning a finger at him. “No. No, Rogers. Don’t you _dare-”_

“Drop him.”

Thor cupped his hands around the soles of Tony’s shoes and boosted him upwards effortlessly, shrugging him off as one would a backpack. The mechanic gave an _entirely masculine_ yelp of surprise as the world briefly turned upside-down, but he didn’t even have a chance to flail mid-air before unfairly strong arms were catching him around his shoulders and beneath his knees (that clichéd bastard). Steve smiled at him pleasantly.

“Hey, Tony. Nice of you to drop by.”

The mechanic let his head sag back with a dramatic groan. “Oh my god. The Dad jokes. They’re catching.” He half-heartedly smacked the back of his hand against Steve’s chest. “Put me down before you strain something, Grandpa.”

Steve obligingly lowered his feet to the floor so that he could right himself, then stepped back to glance around the room, turning slowly in a full circle to take it all in, giving a whistle of appreciation.

“It looks swell, Tony,” he enthused, with a smile in the other man’s direction, and the mechanic was hard-pressed to decide whether the pulse of warmth in his chest was fondness at the man’s adorably outdated use of the word ‘swell’, or pride at the fact that Steve was so obviously pleased with something that Tony had made.

“Yeah, I guess it could’ve turned out worse,” he agreed with as convincing a casual air as he could muster, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It’ll be even better now that the UV lighting’s all wired up and ready to go.”

Thor hopped down off the stepladder and tugged on the hem of his rumpled t-shirt to straighten it, casting them both an easy smile. “If my assistance is no longer required, I think I’ll seek out our youngest comrade. I take it that your presence here implies his safe return, Captain?”

Steve nodded. “He’s doing great. Bruce is kitting him out with a portable monitor in the infirmary, but they shouldn’t be long.”

“Then I’ll take my leave of you, friends.” Thor raised his hand in a parting wave and turned towards the exit, crossing towards the stairwell with long, powerful strides.

“Hey, thanks for your help, Goldilocks,” Tony called after him, receiving another wave in response. Then he glanced sideways at Steve and arched an eyebrow. “Finally broke the news to Munchkin, huh? Bet the kid just _loves_ the idea of being monitored continuously for the next few days.”

“He wasn’t thrilled at the notion,” the captain acknowledged with a sigh, reaching out to tug the goggles from Tony’s head and tossing them into the toolkit nearby. “But when Bruce explained that the alternative was another couple of nights in a medical facility, he changed his mind.”

The mechanic bent down to grab the strap of the toolkit (really just a glorified duffel bag with a few extra pockets), hefting it up off the floor. “He manage to eat anything after I left this morning?”

“Half a sandwich and a handful of curly fries,” Steve answered, taking the toolkit off him and hefting the strap over his own shoulder. “Not enough to satisfy the docs. They almost didn’t let him come home, but Bruce managed to negotiate a compromise. Poor kid’s on a bunch of weight-gain shakes to supplement his diet.”

Tony pulled a face, folding up the step-ladder and moving to tuck it under one arm before Steve took that from him, too. He gave the super-soldier and amused look but didn’t complain. It was fucking awkward for a short guy to carry that ladder, anyway. Hence why he’d roped Thor into giving him a hand.

“We should do a team thing for dinner,” he suggested as they headed over to the elevator. “To celebrate. You know, throw a ‘Welcome Home’ party or something.”

Steve seemed to ponder that over for a moment, levering the ladder upright as they came to a halt in front of the sealed doors. “It’s been a long day,” he spoke eventually. “And the kid looked pretty drained when I left him with Bruce. This is the longest he’s been out of bed since he got sick, I don’t know if he’d be up for a party.”

“Mm,” Tony acknowledged, crossing his arms over his chest, and glanced towards the ceiling. “Jarvis, reinitialise elevator controls to floor twenty-three. But keep Peter away from it, capiche?”

_“Indeed, Sir. The elevator car is on its way.”_

“You think he has any idea?” Steve asked with a quiet smile.

Tony scoffed. “Oh please, the kid’s been whining at me for five days straight about how hush-hush we’ve kept things. I’m sure if he’d suspected anything, we’d know about it by now.” 

 

 

**o~O~o**

 

 

 

 

Peter was in heaven. After five days and seven hours (give or take a few minutes) spent confined to his isolation bed in the Helicarrier’s medbay, star-fishing out on his two-thousand-dollar king sized bed with its one-thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets was like sinking into a hot bath at the end of a long day. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Mmmm,” he moaned luxuriously, attempting to smother himself in the mound of pillows.

“Would you like me to leave the two of you alone?”

Rolling onto his side, Peter gave the archer his middle finger, ignoring Clint’s grin. “I’m just gonna sleep for a couple of months now, ‘kay?”

“I’m waking you for dinner,” Clint told him flatly. “But you can kip for a few hours, sure.” He gestured at the fishbowl (or, well, _helmet)_ in his hands. “You left Leo on the Quinjet. Where d’you want him?”

Peter waved a lazy hand towards the desk near the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Over there. Thanks, man.”

He watched with eyes at half-mast as Clint set the modified helmet down, the metal supports (Tony had soldered them in place a couple of days ago to keep the helmet from rolling) clunking against the surface of the desk. The archer shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way back towards Peter at a casual stroll, pausing at the foot of the bed to arch an eyebrow at him.

“You gonna change into your PJ’s or what?”

“Nngh,” Peter replied intelligently, but kicked off his converses all the same, because sleeping in shoes was never comfortable. His hoody and sweatpants were fine as makeshift sleepwear. Good thing, too; he honestly didn’t have the energy to change.

Clint knocked the shoes off the mattress and onto the floor. “Want me to call your aunt, let her know you’re home safe?”

Peter shook his head, scrubbing the heel of his palm across his brow where a niggling headache was building. “Nah, s’okay. I’ll call her tonight.” He squinted at his bedside table, finding it empty, and glanced back at the archer. “Do you still have my cell phone?”

“Mm, after you left it in the Quinjet. _Again._ ” Clint took the device from the pocket of his jeans and came around the side of the bed to slide it under the pillow beneath Peter’s head. “You need me, you call me. Okay?”

Peter grunted the affirmative, eyes closed, then whined in protest when Clint’s fingers messed up his hair at the front. Batting at the archer half-heartedly with the hand that wasn’t tucked beneath his pillow, cracking an eyelid open to glare at the man’s retreating back.

“Jerk,” he mumbled, but all Clint did in response was blow him a kiss from the door and disappear off with a dainty wave. Peter stuck his tongue out at the empty space where he had once been, because it seemed like the mature thing to do.

Bruce chose that moment returned from Peter’s kitchen, a glass of water and a granola bar in his hand. Arching an amused eyebrow at Peter’s expression, he set both on the bedside table and heaved the strap of the oxygen canister off his shoulder, setting it down on the floor to lean against the side of the bed.

“I’m leaving the oxygen here, alright?” he said, perching on the edge of the mattress to fiddle with the dial. “I’ve set it to three litres. If your wrist-monitor starts alarming, Jarvis’ll let us know, but I need you to put the mask on until one of us gets here, okay?” There was a pause, then a gentle flick to the back of Peter’s hand. “Are you listening to me?”

Peter smiled sleepily at Bruce’s amused tone, but gave the doctor a thumbs-up and an unintelligible mumble of assent. Bruce patted his arm and stood from the bed.

“Jarvis, lights.”

The teenager didn’t even have the oomph to thank the AI as blinds rolled down to cover the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up half of one wall of his bedroom; he was already half asleep. Laying there in bed was like floating on a giant cloud after endless days of trying to get comfortable with tubes and wires snaking out of him on all sides, and he was fairly sure he’d be able to sleep straight through ‘til morning if the team let him. He wasn’t holding out much hope, mind. He still had to eat dinner and down another of those god-awful calorie shakes and take his meds, and he doubted Bruce would let him skip any of those stages. _Ugh._ He didn’t want to think about it. Especially since he was so damn _comfortable_ …

It felt like an unfairly short period of time had passed before someone was shaking him awake again. He resisted at first, because his Spidey-senses weren’t ringing any alarm bells and that meant it was a Friendly. With a mumbled protest, he buried his head deeper into the pillow, legs curling up against the feeling of being pulled so unwillingly from the cosy warmth of sleep.

Somebody nearby chuckled, but it wasn’t the person shaking him – too far away for that. He contemplated prying his eyes open to peer at the intruders, but his eyelids were dry and heavy with sleep, so he dismissed that idea quickly enough.

“Peter,” a voice murmured from beside him, and the hand on his shoulder moved to squeeze the back of his neck. “Come on. It’s time to wake up, kiddo.”

The teenager turned his head to the side to squint up at the older man in the semi-darkness of his bedroom, a tired, disgruntled expression on his face. Steve smiled back at him with fond amusement, a look that brought a matching (albeit sleepy) smile to Peter’s lips.

“Hey,” he croaked, his throat dry. “Wha’ time issit?”

“Five-thirty,” Steve replied, reaching for the glass of water on Peter’s bedside table and flicking on the lamp there as the teenager struggled to sit up against the pillowed headboard. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Peter downed half the glass in a few eager gulps, then stopped to catch his breath, feeling the tell-tale catch of mucus in his chest on every inhale. It had an annoying habit of collecting there whenever he was asleep, and he wasn’t looking forward to coughing it up, although over the past few days he’d found that it burned less and less as his body’s healing factor sped up the cell regeneration process. Still, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant activity.

“Can I eat up here?” he asked plaintively, meeting Steve’s gaze, hoping to sway the captain in his favour with a doe-eyed look.

“Whatever you want, kid,” came the casual reply from the doorway, and Peter glanced over Steve’s shoulder to see Tony leaning against the wall, studying one of Peter’s _Ensure Plus_ bottles. “As long as you eat something, I couldn’t care less where you parked your scrawny ass.” He brought the bottle to his lips, taking an experimental sniff of the beverage before sipping it. Then he grimaced and held it away from himself, coughing. “Fuck, that’s repulsive.” He shot Steve an incredulous look. “Are we seriously making him drink these?”

Peter gave the captain a pleading look. “Hopefully not?”

“Doctor’s orders, son,” Steve replied, but not without sympathy. “You need the energy to get better.”

“How are these supposed to make him better?” Tony criticised, setting the bottle aside on a nearby dresser-top and wiping his hands on his jeans, even though he probably hadn’t spilled any on himself. “I thought we were meant to be plying him with snacks, not making him upchuck his dinner.”

Steve sighed. “Tony. That’s not helping.”

The mechanic held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine.” He moved over to the end of the bed, leaning down to grab Peter’s discarded converses and tossing them onto the mattress. “Lace up, sport. There’s something downstairs you gotta see.”

Setting his empty glass aside, Peter reached for the shoes, looking suspiciously from one man to the other when they shared a secretive glance. “Okay…” he agreed, drawing the word out slowly.

“Don’t look so worried,” Steve said with a chuckle. “It’s nothing malicious.”

Still suspicious, but no longer quite so apprehensive, Peter allowed himself to be helped out of bed (he needed the support – he still got dizzy pretty easily) and ushered down the corridor of his apartment towards the elevator. Jarvis had kindly dimmed the overhead lights so that Peter didn’t have to squint as they stepped inside, but his eyelids were still heavy enough with sleep that he had to grind the heels of his palms against them to wake himself up a little more.

_“Where to, sir?”_

Tony grinned shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, bouncing on the balls of his feet in a way that was alarmingly familiar (it generally preceded an explosion of some kind in one of the labs). “Floor 23, Jarvis. Security override ‘Project SP-23’.”

_“Command code approved. Security lock overridden.”_

Peter side-eyed him, excitement beginning to stir in his chest at the command. Floor 23? Long days of waiting and trying to overhear conversations, and Project 23 was simply a project on the 23rd floor of the Tower? That sneaky bastard. He opened his mouth to voice the sentiment, but the elevator doors slid open again before he could think of something appropriately snarky to say. And at the sight that met him, he somewhat lost the ability to speak at all.

The lights were dimmed, but not enough that he couldn’t see the expansive room clear as day. See every perfectly smooth curve-ramp and expertly angled grinding rail; the way each piece of apparatus was spaced apart with care to allow the perfect build-up and recovery time. It was like someone had plucked a fantasy from the mind of every teenaged skater and lumped all the best bits together in one place.

There was a giant beanbag pit, too – separated from the rest of the floor by a slight incline and several large pillars, decorated in cool, mellow colours that matched the rest of the room. It looked so fucking comfortable. The beanbags were to one side, a squishy-looking couch resting against the adjacent wall, and a giant plasma-screen TV hung down from the ceiling. There was a fridge built into the wall beside the couch, its front panel made of glass to display a full stock of drinks and snacks, and Peter was already fantasising about pulling all-nighters down here with Clint and Thor as soon as he felt up to it.

He took several, slow steps forward, trying to drink it all in and once.

“You…you built this?” he asked, his voice a little faint as he gawked up at the ceiling, eying the various hand-bars and nets that hung down in random places. God, and he’d thought the _construction site_ had been fun.

“Consider it a belated ‘get well soon’ present,” Tony replied, coming up behind him to sling a companionable arm around his shoulders. “Or a ‘congratulations on not dying’ gift.”  

“Tony,” Steve chided, but Peter could hear the smile in his voice.

Peter took in a shaky breath, the warmth in his chest swelling fit to burst. “You built it for _me?”_

“You got wax in there or something? Yes, I built it for you.” Tony paused then and reconsidered, “Well, it wasn’t just me, mind. Steve handled the décor, obviously. The monkey-bar thing on the ceiling?” He gestured upwards at the impressive upside-down obstacle course. “Clint and Tasha. And Coulson gave the specs for a few holographic target simulations, if you ever feeling like skating your way to freedom from bad guys. They’re all programmed into Jarvis’s mainframe, and the holo-emitters are built into the walls, so you can turn the whole place into a computer game at the touch of a button. Thor helped with the physical construction of the whole thing, obviously, because I’m only a puny human. But yeah, the rest of it’s my design. Do you like- _hngh!”_

The hug was probably a touch too tight to be entirely comfortable, but Peter didn’t really have a lot of control over his limbs right now. Grinning like an idiot, he squeezed his arms around Tony’s midriff and chanted _“thank you”_ and _“oh my god”_ into the mechanic’s shoulder.

“I think he likes it,” Steve concluded calmly, but when Peter peeked over Tony’s shoulder, he could see the captain’s pleased smile.

Extracting himself before he broke one of Tony’s ribs, Peter gave into the renewal of excitement and affection in his chest and tackled Steve in a hug to match the mechanic’s. The soldier caught him with a laugh, returning the embrace with equal enthusiasm before lowering him to the floor and patting his back.

“It’s good to see you back to your old self again,” he said, and clucked Peter under the chin with a smile before stepping back and nodding towards the wall adjacent to the elevator. “See that control panel? Go fiddle with it.”

Unsure as to why this was important, but completely trusting the older man that it was going to be _fucking awesome_ (judging by their recent track record), Peter moved over to the wall-mounted touch-screen, tapping his finger against the spinning Spidey symbol in the centre of the panel. Half a dozen boxes appeared, labelled with headings such as _Disco_ , _Night Vision_ and _Whiteout,_ and with a sidebar titled _‘Playlists’_. As curious as he was eager, Peter tapped the box for ‘ _Night Vision’_ , his face splitting into another grin as the lights dimmed until it was almost pitch-black. There was a brief pause, then the bars of Clint’s ceiling-mounted obstacle course came to life, hundreds of intricate UV-blue lines weaving their way around the poles and crawling across the support beams. Fluorescent spiderwebs appeared where the rope nets had previous hung, Spidey-symbols glowing from the walls and the bases of the ramps that had previously appeared to be a uniform colour.

“Oh my god,” Peter reiterated, the fingers of both hands clutching at his hair as he stared at his surroundings. “Oh my _god,_ I love you both, this is the _best._ Can I use it? Can I use it right now? _Please?”_

“Not today, kiddo,” Tony denied, clapping his hands twice to return the floor to its previous level of illumination, banishing the spider-themed scenery. “Consider it an incentive to get better. Once Bruce thinks you’re well enough, you’ll get the second half of your present.”

Initially put-out at being told to wait (for _days_ , potentially) before he could use the indoor skate park, Peter brightened anew at the promise of _more._

“Second half?”

“Well, I _did_ build you a skate park,” Tony elaborated, throwing an arm around his shoulders again and leading him back towards the elevator. “I wasn’t going to leave you without the proper equipment to use it, was I? Your new boards arrive in five days; put some meat on your bones and try not to overexert yourself between now and then, and you might actually be well enough to break them in when they get here.”

Well. That settled things, then.

Peter was going to need to get his hands on a cheesecake.

 

 

 

 

 

**o~O~o**

 

 

 

 

Rolling over to glare at the bright red numerals of his digital alarm clock, Peter levered himself up on one elbow to punch his pillow into a more comfortable level of plumpness. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have taken that nap before dinner. He’d been doing some basic yoga exercises with Natasha, since the agent had blankly refused to spar with him until he’d been cleared for active duty, but she’d been willing to help him flex disused muscles so that he wouldn’t seize up mid-battle when they finally released him from medical leave.

He sighed and rolled over again onto his back to stare at the ceiling in the semi-darkness. Nope. Sleep just wasn’t gonna happen tonight. He supposed it was a good sign, in a way, that he wasn’t bone-weary like he’d been these past couple of weeks. He’d take insomnia over persistent exhaustion any day.

A week and a half into his recuperation period, and things were finally beginning to settle back down into a more familiar pattern. The team, while a little more attentive than Peter had known them to be prior to the whole almost-dying incident, had finally resumed their habitual daily activities; Steve and Clint went out running every morning, and the SHIELD agent had begun to spend hours at a time down in his private archery range rather than oh-so-casually babysitting Peter every minute of the day like he’d done at the beginning (usually with the offhand excuse that he had ‘ _nothing better to do’_ , a lie that Peter had never bought). Bruce had allowed him to remove his portable monitor with the understanding that the teenager would alert him immediately if he began to experience any unexpected symptoms, and the physicist spent most of the day down in his lab now as he’d done before, brainstorming new projects with Tony and helping the mechanic design new tech for both the team and Stark Industries.

Peter was always invited, of course, but he’d had to resign himself to the fact that both men had doctorate degrees and were experts in their fields of study, whereas all he had to rely on was a slightly-above-average high school science education and the tech-design capabilities that he’d honed over the past ten years of fiddling with everything and anything mechanical down in the basement of his old home. He was a quick study, sure, but even pouring over papers and listening avidly to Bruce and Tony banter back and forth about particle physics didn’t make up for the twenty-and-then-some years of experience that each scientist had a claim to.

He enjoyed being included in their little genius bubble, though. Bruce was always happy to set aside what he was doing and answer Peter’s barrage of questions whenever the teenager stopped by with a freshly brewed cup of tea (because a little bribery never hurt anyone, right?). And Tony, being Tony, used Peter’s tech-related queries as a chance to dissect or create (either literally or using his holographic imaging technology) an array of mechanical objects to illustrate his point, and one hour would quickly turn into six as the teenager became enthralled in the project, to the point where Steve had taken to parking himself on the couch in the workshop to sketch so that he could remind them to eat and drink at regular intervals, and nudge Peter into the elevator when he started to flag.

He’d even been allowed out of the tower to go and visit Aunt May a few days ago (he’d been calling her every night anyway, to reassure her that he hadn’t gotten sick again), although the team hadn’t quite trusted him to handle the long trek from the train station to his aunt’s house without keeling over in the street. So Phil had driven him there after breakfast (in _Lola,_ at that) and Clint had picked him up later that afternoon when he’d fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted by the day’s events; even though all he’d really done was help his Aunt make cookies and clear out some junk from the attic while she fussed and tsk’d over how much weight he’d lost since his last visit.

And finally, _finally_ , Tony had given him the access codes to the closet of skateboards on his new personalised floor, with the understanding that he wouldn’t be in there for more than an hour at a time and would stop the moment he grew breathless. Admittedly, the first couple of sessions had triggered coughing fits so bad that Jarvis had tattled on him to Bruce and Steve, but it had only been an exercise-induced tickle like the ones he’d always gotten before the Bite when he was recovering from a recent cold, the sort that could be triggered by going from warm air to cold air and vice versa. Although it had taken a considerably lengthier explanation of this to reassure the two adults that nothing else was wrong with him.

That aside, his recuperation period had been kind of awesome. With his appetite restored, he’d unashamedly stuffed himself with junk food between meals to try and fill out his clothes again, having found the once-pathetically-bare cupboards of the mini-kitchen on his floor stocked with a vast array of snacks, from protein bars and dried fruit (Bruce) to potato chips and M&M’s (Tony). Between Thor’s colossal club sandwiches and Steve’s hearty, home-cooked breakfasts, he’d be back to his previous build in no time.

He was feeling a bit peckish now, actually. Maybe he’d bump into Thor or Tony if he went to the team kitchen/dining area upstairs. He could use the company, and maybe a mug of hot milk and a bite of late supper would remind his body that it was supposed to be sleeping. 

“Hey, Jarvis?” he called, voice hoarse from lack of use.

 _“Yes, Peter?”_ came the immediate reply, his tone hushed to match Peter’s volume.

The teenager smiled at the use of his first name (after lengthy persuasion, he’d finally managed to wheedle Tony into deleting the subroutine that prevented the AI from being informal with him, although he’d been warned that corrupting the computer into calling him _‘dude’_ or _‘bro’_ would result in him being fired from his kind-of-a-cover-up, not-actually-legitimate job as an intern at Stark Industries).

“Is Tony still up?” he asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair and yawning.

 _“I’m afraid Mr Stark has retired to bed,_ ” the AI apologised. _“But I’m certain he would be happy for me to wake him if needed. Do you require his assistance?”_

Peter pushed himself upright in bed, leaning over to tap the base of his bedside lamp to turn it on at its lowest setting. “Nah, it’s okay. Is anyone else awake?”

_“Agents Coulson and Barton are currently in the Command Centre, and Thor is on the roo-”_

“Wait, the Command Centre?” Peter interrupted, pausing with his legs halfway out of the bed. “What’s happening, is there a mission?”

_“Not as far as I’m aware, Peter. There has been no call to assemble the Avengers.”_

“Well, how long have they been up there?” the teenager demanded, snagging his hoody from the chair near the bed and dragging it over his head.

_“Approximately thirteen minutes.”_

Peter grabbed his web-slingers from the bottom shelf of his bedside cabinet, slipping them into the front pocket of his hoody (just in case – it never hurt to be prepared).  “It’s not a classified SHIELD op., right? They’re not gonna, like, wipe my memory or something if I walk in and catch them doing secret spy stuff?”

There was a brief pause as the AI gathered this information, and Peter used it to stuff his feet into his converses, lacing them up loosely (if the Tower got attacked or some shit like that, he’d be kicking them off anyway and suiting up, medical leave be damned) and heading out into the corridor.

 _“Agent Coulson says you are welcome to join them,”_ Jarvis replied after a moment. _“Agent Barton asked me to remind you that children require between eight to ten hours of uninterrupted sleep a night.”_

“Jerk,” Peter muttered, but he was smiling as he stepped into the elevator. “Take me up, J.”

Clint was waiting for him directly in front of the elevator when the doors slid open again, arms crossed over his chest, lips kicking up at the corner.

“Either the fungal stuff in your lung has given you freakishly powerful telepathic abilities,” he mused, “or you haven’t actually gone to bed yet.”

“I went to bed,” Peter protested, ducking the hand that shot out to ruffle his hair. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

He made a beeline for the main control desk, a huge semi-circular thing that spanned half the room, comprised of touch-sensitive plating and holographic screens. Phil was sitting in one of the leather swivel-chairs, tapping away on the control panel with nimble fingers. Peter sidled up to lean against the side of his chair, glancing at the holo-screens, which showed a live helicopter-cam news feed of a smoking metallic-looking object sitting in the middle of a shallow crater in what had once been a wheat crop of some kind, judging by the burnt remains that surrounded the crash site.

“You should be in bed,” Phil told him calmly without glancing up from his work.

Peter squinted at the screen. “What _is_ that? A spaceship?”

“That’s what SHIELD thought initially,” Clint disclosed, coming up beside him and bumping their shoulders together. “Sent out an 0-8-4 alert and gave us a nudge in case it turned out to be hostile.”

“Which it isn’t,” Phil reassured, pausing to send the teenager a brief smile before resuming his work. “It’s an automated research satellite that NASA lost contact with earlier today. Fell out of orbit and landed on a remote farm in west Yorkshire. Gave the locals a bit of a scare, but that’s as far as the damage goes.”

“So no need to Assemble?”

“Nope.” Clint slung his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “So you can go back to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Peter protested, and it was the honest truth. The momentary surge of adrenaline at the prospect of a mission had banished any residual tendrils of fatigue.

The archer considered him for a moment, then grinned. “You know what? Neither am I. But a beanbag slumber party on your skate-floor sounds pretty appealing right now.”

Peter matched his grin, then pretended to consider the offer. “Well…I suppose there’ll be plenty of snacks. And I guess a sci-fi marathon wouldn’t be a total waste of time.”

“It’s a date,” Clint concluded, before leaning around Peter to tug on Phil’s tie. “You coming, sir?”

The agent glanced up at them both, amused, and swatted the archer’s hand away from his clothing. “I’ll need to finish up here first. But yes, I’ll join you once I’m done.”

“Awesome.” Steering Peter back over to the elevator, Clint pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled a number quickly, pressing the device to his ear as the car began to descend. He sighed a few moments later and shoved his cell back into his pocket again. “He never has his phone on him. Hey, Jarvis? You mind letting Thor know that we’re crashing in Peter’s beanbag pit for the night? He’s welcome to join us if he wants company.”

_“Certainly, Agent Barton.”_

“So, what are you in the mood for?” Clint asked, turning to him. “Star wars? Star Trek? Random playlist lucky-dip?”

Peter smiled and gave an easy shrug, stepping out of the elevator when it reached his skate-floor, tapping the control panel to select _Night Vision_ and plunging the room into a UV-tinted maze of florescent designs. He didn’t much care what they watched. Hell, he’d let Clint play _Robin Hood_ on repeat if that was what the archer wanted. He was too preoccupied with the swell of warmth and gratitude in his chest, touched by how willingly Clint had abandoned his own chances of a good night’s sleep in favour of keeping him company.

Comfortably settled on impossibly deep beanbags fifteen minutes later, boxed in by Thor and Clint, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, he couldn’t imagine himself feeling more at ease anywhere else. With Thor’s rumbling laugh in one ear and Clint’s witty narrative whispered in the other, he felt a sense of belonging that he’d never quite had the guts to acknowledge before. But with his head resting on Thor’s shoulder and Clint legs half-tangled with his own, it was hard to deny the facts.

They’d been _teammates_ and _friends_ for a long while, and that had been enough to begin with; but it was more than that now. They were family. He was wanted and appreciated and cared for, and it had been a fucking long time since he’d allowed himself to believe that.

He was home.

And he was _happy._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes 'It Was Probably The Pudding'.
> 
> (I would apologise for the sappy ending, but I have no regrets. Peter deserves his moment of happiness after the hell I've put him through.)
> 
> What a ride it's been! I can't thank you all enough for the wonderful reviews and continuous support, it's more than I ever imagined. I mean, 800+ kudos? I would've been happy with 80! I'm delighted to have been able to share this story with you, and I look forward to sharing many more in the future. 
> 
> The next story in this series is already underway. After much deliberation between a Bruce-centric fic and a Clint-centric one, Clint came out on top. You all know how I feel about the guy. I'm hoping to get the first chapter posted sometime next week, work and social life permitting.
> 
> I love you all, and thank you once again for sticking with me through this story. You're the best!


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